


A Rare Gift

by UnknownLeaf



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Not Beta Read, Not So Bloodthirsty Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2020-10-05 17:07:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20492297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnknownLeaf/pseuds/UnknownLeaf
Summary: Quentin escapes a trial a little worse for wear, but he has far more to worry about than a mere gash on his arm.





	1. Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a piece that accompanies my other story, "Thus I Spiral Into Freedom".  
Not knowing how to properly work the material in, I decided to scrap it and post it as a standalone entry.  
There is a link in the end note for those interested in reading the main story. Enjoy!

Quentin emerged from the darkened fog a little worse for wear. His previous trial with The Cannibal had been quite tricky but he managed to distract the killer long enough for his friends to escape. His own survival was nothing short of a miracle, the man’s swings nearly connecting as he sprinted to freedom. One moment of hesitation would have led to a different outcome.

His escape, however, did not come without a few drawbacks. His clothes were tattered and filthy, the stench clinging to the fabric reminiscent of a fresh corpse. Though the gash on his right bicep was his main priority, the nasty cut bleeding and stinging terribly. Hopefully Claudette was present at the fire. The precious medical kit he acquired was lost during the trial when The Cannibal knocked it clean from his hand during his escape. He thought he had a firm grip on the handle but apparently not.

Barely crossing from the treeline into the main campground, Quentin’s eyes instantly widened in fear before he swiftly backpedaled to safety behind a tree trunk. There, off in the distance and surrounding the beautiful flame, were killers.

Peeking around the tall trunk, he was able to make out four killers: The Hag, the woman inspecting her elongated fingers before chewing on the tips; The Nurse, the woman simply eyeing the blaze in silence like an enraptured moth; and The Trapper and The Cannibal, both males seemingly conversing with one another. Wait, were they talking? It appeared so but that could not be right. The only killer he knew to be capable of speech was Freddy with his perverted slurs and unoriginal taunts.

Oh shit. If these guys were here, then did that mean Freddy was here too? And where was here exactly? Where were the other survivors? What was going on?

Quentin shook his head to dispel the million unanswered questions piling up. He had to remain calm and lie low. Lord only knew what these monsters would do to him if he was discovered. Stay calm, his brain chided when he began to hyperventilate—a request which he was fairly quick to oblige. Peering at the killers before him, it appeared as though they did not hear his little panic attack. Good.

Slowly retreating backwards into the nearly pitch-black forest, his back smacked against some solid surface. Quentin reached around, expecting to feel coarse bark or possibly squishy fungus. Instead his fingers grazed over what felt like thick cloth, the scratchiness accompanied by something wet. Moving his hand in front of his face, Quentin was met with the sight of blood. A lot of it. His breath froze in his throat while his hand began to tremble. Slowly cranking his neck to the side, Quentin casted his eyes upward to see an eerie white latex mask staring menacingly down at him.

Myers? Holy fuck!

Panicking, Quentin shrieked in surprise and immediately ran away from the man, the fear coursing through his bloodstream propelling him further into the woods. And yet, the urge to look back overtook him. Was he being pursued? Was The Shape inches away from hoisting him into the air and plunging a sharp knife into his chest? Against his conflicting judgement he glanced behind him only to promptly run face-first into something, the impact knocking him flat on his ass.

“What’d we have here?”

Oh god. Through the meager light of the fluorescent fungi and flora, Quentin’s cesious eyes landed on his literal worst nightmare—Freddy Krueger. The sweater-clad killer was sporting the biggest grin he had ever seen, his miscoloured eyes practically sparkling with mirth. This was not happening.

The dream demon leaned down, his tongue clicking against his teeth, and said, “I wasn’t expecting you to visit me Quen. I’m touched.”

“Fuck you,” Quentin aggressively seethed. He was by no means in the mood to deal with this asshole. Not when he had no idea where he was or why there were killers everywhere.

“I’m all for foreplay,” Freddy declared in an annoyingly dramatic fashion, “but if that’s how you f—”

The rustling of leaves interrupted the dream demon, and Quentin leaned around on his forearm to observe Myers standing close by. The man was ever silent and made no further movement; however, from what Quentin was able to see, his posture looked even more rigid than normal. Was he angry? He probably disliked having to chase the teen down, or surrender his precious kill to another.

“Oh no you don’t,” Freddy warned The Shape, the man yanking Quentin up by the arm and thrusting his blades against the boy’s jugular. “_He’s mine_.”

Quentin wanted to struggle, to break free from his captor’s vile grip, but then what? What the fuck was he supposed to do after that? He could attempt to flee again, hide somewhere until he figured things out. But, if he was caught again, then it was all for not.

Myers, with his oversized kitchen knife gripped tightly at his side, took an agonizingly slow step towards the pair.

“Back off _boy!_” Freddy snarled angrily at The Shape, the dream demon dragging a frightened Quentin away from Myers.

Boy? Was it really wise to call this guy a boy? With his bulky physique, The Shape could probably mop the floor with the dream demon. Then again, Freddy was surprisingly strong for an old groundskeeper, and Quentin honestly did not know which killer was more dangerous in this instance. 

Tightening his hold on Quentin, Freddy hissed out a low, “Why don’t you f—GAH!”

The dream demon screeched in agony as a hatchet abruptly buried itself into his shoulder, the man staggering backwards and loosening his hold on the boy. The Huntress too? Not good. Quentin had only managed to catch a glimpse of the thing sailing through the air, the steel gleaming dully in the aero blue lighting. She could very easily throw another one to impale him in the face or chest or, god forbid, the crotch.

Quentin shook himself from his fearful musings and tried to run away from this escalating situation only to crash into yet another solid obstacle. What the hell? Like each time before, said obstacle was yet another killer. The Wraith, whom revealed himself and ensured Quentin was unable to escape, eyed him compassionately. Not at all phased by such an expression, he thrashed against the cloaking killer, his body twisting and contorting every which way in the other's hold.

“Be calm,” The Wraith uttered softly to him.

Now that gave Quentin pause, his struggles momentarily halting to stare at the killer.

“W-What?” he mumbled quietly.

“Be calm,” the bell-wielding killer reiterated slowly. “I mean you no harm young one.”

No harm? Quentin internally scoffed at that. His previous experiences with the cloaking killer spoke volumes of how much harm the man had caused him. Still, the grip The Wraith had on him was not bruising or painful, and the man never once reached for his weapon. And when did The Wraith start talking too? This was all incredibly overwhelming, enough so where he was beginning to develop a pounding headache.

Quentin jumped slightly when Freddy grunted in a guttural manner, the dream demon ripping the hatchet from his shoulder and yelling, “You fucking bitch! What’re y—”

Freddy then released a bloodcurdling scream when a chainsaw suddenly ripped through his torso. Blood, entrails, and whatever else flew in every direction and painted the vicinity in a deep, crimson red. Quentin did not even flinch when some bits of gooey flesh splattered on his cheek, his body essentially paralyzed from witnessing the gory scene play out in front of him.

“H-H-Holy shit,” Quentin murmured in awe and fright when the chainsaw powered down. His worst nightmare, the man that had tormented him for as long as he could remember, lay dead at The Hillbilly’s feet. Despite his shock, watching Freddy get brutally gutted was immensely satisfying. Assuming the guy was actually dead. He was, right? Focus Quentin, his mind screamed at him. There were bigger priorities to contend with. Like the four other killers here—four other scary, intimating, and strong killers. He made to struggle once more until a hatchet was abruptly thrusted in front of his nose.

The Huntress spoke gruffly in a foreign language, something harsh sounding to the ear. Maybe German or Russian; he did not know.

“U-Umm…” Quentin squeaked, the noise coming out shaky and uneven. Could all of the killers speak and, if so, why had they not done so before? Perhaps they only spoke to each other.

“Protect boy,” she voiced deeply in broken English, her hatchet waving in front of Quentin’s tired eyes. Her masked face then dipped to his bicep and a meaty hand shot forward to grab him. Quentin flinched in fear, his eyelids shutting tightly and his shoulders hunching into his neck as he waited for a swift death. When nothing happened, he cracked an eye open to observe The Huntress clutching his arm and examining his wound. Her touch was a bit rough as her fingers pried the shredded fabric of his vest apart near the gash—likely to get a better look at his injury. “Boy hurt.”

“Oh, umm, it-it’s not—I’m fine,” Quentin stammered out only to shake his head. Why was he having this conversation with the very monsters that gave him these kinds of wounds?

“Hurt,” the hatchet-wielding killer repeated. “We help boy.”

“W-Woah, woah—”

A hand on his shoulder interrupted his panicky blubbering, his eyes following the source up to The Hillbilly’s mutilated face. Quentin gulped nervously but refrained from screaming his head off for a second time.

“Let’s go,” The Hillbilly said, his voice sounding as though it had not been utilized in years.

“O-Okay,” Quentin mumbled apprehensively while every fibre of his body yelled at him to run. But running was useless at this point; he was caught. Besides, if they were indeed going to kill him, they would have done it already. Right? Hopefully they did not intend to do worse things to him. Either way, considering how they had saved him, he decided to cooperate for the time being.

Quentin took one last look at the dream demon’s corpse, the sight of his mangled body bringing a grin to his lips, and allowed the four killers to lead him away. He knew not what they planned to do with him, but at least his never-ending nightmare was over for good.

Freddy was finally dead.

\--------------------

The four of them—now excluding Myers as the man had mysteriously vanished—trekked through the woods for an immeasurable amount of time. It was certainly long enough for his legs to notice, his toned limbs beginning to protest from the excess exertion.

They eventually came to a stop in a clearing, the area apparently removed of its trees if the numerous stumps were of any indication. Aside from said stumps, there was also an abundance of fluorescent flowers growing in the vicinity, more than he had ever seen before in one place. There was a bunch of furniture scattered around too—a few wooden tables, both cluttered with junk; a wooden chest; and even a couple of beds, their wooden frames covered by several furs.

Did they make these? Since they actually had proper tools to do so, Quentin did not believe his assumption to be too farfetched. But where did they get the screws and nails to hold everything together? Did the wooden creations even have them? And where did all the furs come from? He supposed it did not matter; although, he wished the survivors were able to have these kinds of things. The decor gave the space a sort of homey, comfortable vibe. It was nice.

Quentin was forcibly, yet caringly, parked on a wide stump by The Huntress. The burly woman then sauntered towards a wooden chest and threw it open, her hands rummaging around its insides.

He caught sight of The Wraith crouching down beside him in his peripheral vision. The killer tapped his forearm twice, and calmly asked, “Can you remove this?”

Quentin eyed his battered form before he pinched his vest sleeve between his fingers and uttered, “M-My vest?”

The bell-wielding killer nodded.

“Why?”

“Remove now!” The Huntress boomed, her tone stern and with a hatchet rising at the ready. The harshness of her demand caused Quentin to shrink into himself, his body unconsciously trembling in fright once more.

“Gentle Anna,” The Hillbilly advised the woman while one of his hands grasped her hatchet and lowered the dangerous weapon, “gentle.”

She had a name? Since Freddy and Myers both had names, it stood to reason that the others did as well. However, the information still baffled him all the same.

The Huntress, Anna, sighed before she reiterated her previous demand with a softer tone. “Remove. Want help boy.”

Quentin eyed Anna warily and then turned to The Wraith, those bark-like lips twisting into an encouraging smile. He sighed aloud as he was not comfortable with their help in the slightest. Although, he supposed there was no point in refusing and feared the ramifications of doing so.

After careful thought, Quentin offered a stiff nod and proceeded to shrug out of his vest while wincing at the soreness in his right arm. He placed his vest on his lap as both The Wraith and The Huntress inspected his wound. Honestly all this attention over one, albeit large, cut was probably unnecessary.

While the two killers cleaned and bound his injury with the items Anna had taken from the wooden chest, Quentin nervously glanced around at the scenery. This area truly was beautiful and, if he was feeling particularly brave, he might ask how so much plant life came to flourish all in one place. Were they replanting perhaps?

Scanning the trees with curiosity, Quentin instantly gasped when his eyes spotted The Doctor, the crazed killer’s teeth glinting ominously at him from the treeline. The Doctor stepped closer into the light, cackling obnoxiously in his wake only to be instantly silenced by a thrown hatchet being imbedded in the tree trunk beside his head.

“You leave!” Anna shouted at the electricity-wielding killer.

When The Doctor did no such thing, Anna went to chuck another hatchet at him but then quickly holstered it. What was going on? Was she going to let that madman hurt him? Quentin returned his gaze to the electricity-wielding killer only to discover a blade now positioned at his throat. Said blade belonged to none other than The Shape, his bright mask blearily peeking out from the darkness. The Doctor hovered for some time, his wide grin faltering a touch when Myers moved his knife closer to the man’s skin.

Releasing one final snicker or two, The Doctor pushed the kitchen knife away from his neck with a single finger. Next, the intruding killer locked eyes with The Shape, the two males staring each other down, and then The Doctor eventually disappeared back into the sea of trees along with his eerily merry chuckles.

Myers lingered, watching the other killer leave before moving partially behind a tree trunk. From there, The Shape simply observed Quentin and the three supposedly friendly killers from a distance. Well that was creepy. Did the man do nothing except stalk and kill? Though Quentin was surprised Myers even helped at all. From what Laurie had told him about the man, he expected a heartless killer and saw nothing less during trials. This was not that same man however. The Shape was still terrifying, no doubts about that, but his recent actions demonstrated that Myers was capable of other things besides bloodshed. Maybe there was more to the man than he realized.

“It is done,” The Wraith suddenly muttered to him.

Done? Quentin peered down at his bicep to see it free of blood and tightly wrapped in some sort of silky, dark-coloured cloth. He went to touch it but a rough hand prevented him from doing so.

The Wraith shook his head at him and patiently said, “Allow it to heal.”

Quentin felt himself flush in embarrassment and then promptly stiffened when a hand rested on top of his beanie-clad head. Was it The Doctor again? Whipping his head around, he located The Hillbilly now standing above him while the chainsaw-wielding killer offered him a seemingly reassuring nod.

“Boy rest now,” Anna said in a delicate, almost hushed, tone of voice.

“Rest?” he muttered in horror. “Oh, uh, n-no, no thanks. I-I’m good.”

Quentin was not keen on sleeping and especially not surrounded by killers. They may have tended to his injury and protected him from Freddy and The Doctor, but that did not mean he should trust them entirely.

Anna’s mouth formed a frustrated frown, the beefy woman obviously not happy with his answer. Instead of brandishing any hatchets though, she pointed a dirty finger at one of the fur-covered beds.

“Rest,” she said again. When Quentin failed to respond or move whatsoever, she softly added, “Please.”

“Really, it-it’s okay,” Quentin assured the hatchet-wielding killer, his fear manifesting in his voice once more. “I-I don’t wanna—”

“Shh,” The Wraith whispered while placing a calloused finger over his lips. “Be easy. Frederick cannot harm you now.”

“Phillip’s right kid,” The Hillbilly asserted. “He’ll come back ‘ventually, but for now he can’t getcha.”

“Y-You mean… h-he’s still… no,” Quentin mumbled the last word in anguish, tears forming in his orbs and cascading down his cheeks. He cupped both watery eyes with his palms as he wept in utter despair.

Freddy was not dead. Freddy would come back. His nightmare was not over, and it never would be. It never would be!

Quentin vaguely noticed The Wraith, Philip, taking his vest from him and The Hillbilly lifting him into his muscled arms. The chainsaw-wielding killer carried him bridal style over to one of the beds and gently put him down on it, the soft furs tickling the back of his neck. Philip then removed his beanie and placed his vest, now folded into a neat square, underneath the boy’s head.

“M’sorry kid,” The Hillbilly confessed while maneuvering the boy’s hands away from his face. His concern for Quentin seemed genuine if the look on the man’s face was anything to go by. “But you might as well get some shuteye while ya can.”

Philip patted him on the head, his fingers ruffling some of Quentin’s brunette curls, and said, “Rest. Rest, and indulge in this rare gift.”

Both males were smiling sadly at him, the gesture offering his the slightest of comfort. He stifled his cries and offered The Wraith and The Hillbilly a small nod in thanks. With that, the two imposing males moved away but remained in the cleared area. Philip started to idly shine his skull portion of his weapon while The Hillbilly tinkered with the components of his chainsaw.

Anna suddenly invaded his line of sight, the woman rubbing his tear tracks away with a thumb and softly cupping his cheek. Ignoring the possible consequences, Quentin leaned into her touch and gave The Huntress a tender smile and, to his delight, she smiled back at him from beneath her rabbit mask. A gentle yet forceful giant. Anna nearly reminded him of David.

“I...” he hesitated over what to say before going with a heartfelt, “thank you.”

The Huntress grunted in reply, the noise sounding happy or grateful. He was not entirely sure, but at least it did not sound displeased.

“This...” The Hillbilly spoke up from afar, his mouth morphing into a dejected line. “You understand that we’re still... that we gotta—”

“What’s your name?” Quentin abruptly asked the chainsaw-wielder.

“Max,” The Hillbilly replied in confusion.

“No matter what happens Max,” Quentin sniffled and then addressed the other two killers individually by name. “I’m grateful for your help.”

This was a kindness, one he never thought possible on their part, but he would be a fool to expect it during trials.

Underneath their gloomy expressions, they seemed surprised by his answer but accepted it nonetheless. Somehow their reactions reminded Quentin of the others. He wondered if he was ever going to see his fellow survivors again—his most cherished friends. Was he forever trapped with the killers or was the Entity just messing with him? Hell maybe Freddy somehow did this, bending this world to his whim and forcing Quentin to be physically trapped with him too. But the dream demon was not that powerful and the Entity would never allow something like that to happen. At least he prayed that were not the case.

Quentin felt as if he was drowning in his worries, his brain throbbing at the prospect of being stuck with a dangerous crowd, but perhaps these guys knew something he did not. “Am... Am I s-stuck here?”

All three killers looked uneasily amongst one another before Philip uttered a vague, “We are uncertain, though She would not allow your presence among us without reason.”

“S-She?”

“The Entity,” Max helpfully clarified for him.

Anna stomped a foot on the ground in frustration and then pointed another hatchet once more at Quentin. “Rest now,” the female hastily shouted, “worry later. Protect boy. No matter what.”

“O-Okay, okay,” Quentin relented and proceeded to get as comfortable as possible. Despite all the furs, the wooden frame was a bit hard on his back but it was probably better than sleeping on the cold, hard ground.

The Huntress began to hum her familiar tune at his bedside. The delicate sound, foreboding to hear in trials, was now gently lulling him into unconsciousness. He permitted his eyelids to droop shut while his surroundings gradually faded from awareness. Before sleep claimed him, Quentin had one final thought cross his mind.

Maybe these killers were not complete monsters after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus I Spiral Into Freedom: [Link](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19320991/chapters/45957928)


	2. Resolve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration has struck and I decided to add more to this work.  
Unfortunately any further updates will probably be irregular and/or infrequent.

A series of muted noises filtered through his brain, the sounds gently rousing Quentin from his precious slumber. He was very tempted to ignore them as he could deduce no urgent need to move from his comfortable position. Yet a tiny whisper pushed itself to the forefront of his mind. The voice was quite difficult to comprehend but, if his sleep-induced brain was not deceiving him, it spoke of danger. Danger which supposedly loomed just a ways away, as unbending and imposing as an ancient mountain.

What a peculiar thought it was. Surely there was no great danger at the campfire unless Feng, Meg or David perhaps lost another intense rematch with their resident gambler. A fraction of a smile tugged at his slack lips at the thought of the three losing their tempers, their exaggerated antics over being defeated at the simplest of card games. And then the gamer would receive a goofy yet affectionate hug from Ace, the runner a backward snuggle from Nea, and the scrapper would be showered in his pity kisses. If those tender kisses led to celebratory loser sex—like it usually did with Nea and Meg—then that was just fine with him.

He permitted the erotic thought to spread throughout his body, the nature of it stoking the embers of his loins. Thinking of embers, Quentin felt oddly warm yet he sensed no large and muscled body curled around him. Had it ever been this warm before? It felt as though he was lying directly beside the fire, the powerful blaze baking his pale skin without mercy. Perhaps he should move, the newly registered heat becoming unbearable like the stench of iron and decay flooding his nostrils. Where were those putrid smells coming from?

Moaning softly, Quentin fluttered his heavy eyelids several times in an attempt to remove the hazy blur. Several tries later and his eyes were finally allowed to gaze out into the world around him. His sluggish orbs latched onto countless little details: the lack of blinding light from a campfire not present; the abundance of flora lowly hanging above the lushest grass; the minuscule breeze calmly whipping said flora to-and-fro, the plants dancing alongside the grass blades in tranquil harmony; the sad pudgy stumps littering the ground, their lives literally cut too short; the numerous trees standing tall in the distance, their sturdy forms illuminated by the fluorescent mushrooms bursting through their seemingly impenetrable bark; and the miscellaneous wooden furnishings adorning the quaint and cleared little area.

Wooden furnishing? Since when did they have furniture? Something strange was indeed afoot.

He attempted to move but his body was uncharacteristically stubborn. It denied him the use of his almost paralyzed limbs while compelling him back into the serenity of unconsciousness. Quentin felt his resistance waning, his eyelids straining to remain open while the aero blue light was slowly blotted out from his vision.

Then, before his eyes completely shut, a smudgy figure moved into view, its indistinguishable form akin to a pixelated photograph. With his last bits of strength, Quentin focused his tired eyes on the mystery figure. The visual slowly became clearer with each passing second, the image before him sharpening just enough to reveal a bark-like shape with haunting milky white eyes. That was weird. He knew of no fellow survivor with such soul-piercing white eyes and skin li—

Oh god it was The Wraith!

Eyes widening to impossible lengths, adrenaline immediately surged through his system, the hormone jump-starting his heartbeat like a fully repaired generator roaring to life. Quentin tried to scream and bolt upright only for a swift hand to silence his cries and a strong arm to secure him in place.

“Easy,” the bell-wielding killer uttered in a soothing voice, “easy young one. I mean you no harm.”

Like hell he was going to lay here and willingly submit to death! He must have fallen asleep during a trial, his over exhaustion during the most delicate situations screwing him over once again. He thrashed with abandon, his body wiggling around like a single leaf whipping wildly on a branch in a devastating tornado. His head snapped from side-to-side in a desperate effort to shake the offending palm loose but to no avail. Nor hand or arm budged. Tears of frustration welled up in his orbs as his struggles gradually lessened, his mind and body accepting his inevitable fate.

Wait a minute, he was asleep a minute ago right? Why had Freddy not invaded his dreams? The man would never pass up on an opportunity to torment him. Never. Unless this indeed was a nightmare. It made sense though it did not explain Freddy’s absence. He needed to step back for a second and allow his mind to relax. It was too difficult to think properly right now.

As his heartrate steadied and his limbs relaxed, helpful memories slowly began to resurface. Bit by bit, his mind cycled through key information: his successful escape from his last trial with The Cannibal; his discovery of multiple killers sitting around the campfire; his freedom essentially striped from him courtesy of the Entity and, oddly enough, of several unexpectedly friendly killers.

And, most importantly, Freddy’s gruesome yet satisfying demise. Even if it was only temporary.

Hastily shutting his eyes tight to dislodge the moisture residing there, he rested a gentle hand atop the one covering his mouth.

At his small nod, Philip relinquished his hold and offered Quentin a hint of a frown which appeared to crack at the corners of his mouth. “I apologize for startling you,” the man whispered in a sincere tone.

“It-It’s alright,” Quentin assured the other as he rose to a sitting position. “I just forgot where I was for a second.”

Philip hummed in response, coarse fingers extending upward to gingerly brush some of his curly bangs from his heated forehead as the other asked, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m still a little tired,” he admitted, “but I feel a lot better than before.”

“I am relieved,” Philip simply said. The man gave him a bright smile before his eyebrows pinched together in a disheartening fashion—or rather what remnants of eyebrows remained on the killer’s face. “Did you dream?”

Quentin pondered Philip’s words critically for a moment. He in fact was unable to recall experiencing any dreams or any nightmares at all. The second his breathing evened out, his body simply shut him down like an overworked computer being abruptly cut off from its power supply. No dreams were infinitely better than having those horrible, disgusting nightmares with that arrogant, sick fuck.

His thoughts drifted to Freddy, of the man’s inevitable return and how his living nightmare was far from over. A couple of traitorous tears began trailing down his cheeks while a sob wrestled to break loose from the confines of his throat.

“I don’t r-remember dreaming,” Quentin spoke, his voice cracking as the sob slipped out with the last word. His chest heaved as more broken noises squeaked out of his suddenly constricted esophagus. “B-But I’ll dream eventually, and he-he’ll be th—”

“Shh,” Philip softly hushed, the man moving to sit beside him on the bed and pulling him into a sideways hug. The tender caress tipped his delicate emotional scale off-balance and caused his floodgates to rupture, water spilling freely from his tear ducts as he wept in Philip’s arms. “Do not despair.”

“It’ll never end,” he sobbed uselessly. “He’ll never stop. I-I—”

“Stay strong young one. Though it may seem hopeless, take comfort in knowing that, so long as you are here, no harm shall befall you,” the bell-wielding killer promised, the man gently rocking him back and forth. “We will not allow him to harm you.”

“Th-Th… Th-Thank you,” Quentin weakly stuttered out.

Faint, heavy breaths had him flinching in alarm. Freddy? His posture stiffened while his eyes frantically scanned the vicinity in search of the noise. A sudden pressure weighed on his hair and had him freeze, the simple touch causing him to pale as a bead of sweat rolled painstakingly slow down the side of his face.

Philip sighed, his noise sounding a bit peeved, and chided, “Do not frighten the boy Michael.”

Michael? The Shape? Turning ever so carefully around, Quentin glanced up towards the tall figure towering over him. The mere sight of the man was enough to have him gulping nervously. His orbs briefly dipped to the kitchen knife held at Michael’s side. While the man did aid him before with keeping The Doctor at bay, he was still apprehensive of Myers. Something about the other male and his unsettling, silent presence was just too difficult to shake. It was as if Michael possessed the ability to drain your will to fight simply by looking at him. The creepy white mask and deep breathing underneath only added to the chilling tremors he felt around the killer.

Perhaps as some sort of apology, Michael ruffled his already unruly brunette locks with a surprisingly delicate hand. A deep rumbling noise then resounded from the man though Quentin was unsure of what it symbolized.

“W-Where are Anna and Max?” Quentin inquired having just now realized their absence.

“Max wished to check in with the others,” Philip stated while rubbing his arm in a comforting gesture, “and Anna has been summoned by Her.”

“Summoned…” Quentin knew well enough what the other meant. A sharp pain twisted in his gut, his stomach acid bubbling unpleasantly at the thought of his friends surviving without him.

“Anna must perform,” the bell-wielding killer explained, “as we all must when we are called.”

Downcast went Quentin’s eyes as he muttered, “It doesn’t make it any easier… knowing that.”

“Indeed,” Philip gloomily agreed. “Best put it out of your mind.”

Excuse me? Gritting his teeth in irritation, Quentin tilted his head up to snarl out, “Put it outta my mind? I-I can’t just do that!”

“And why is that?” Philip questioned curiously.

Taken aback, Quentin felt his eyes shift uncontrollably around in his skull. “B-Because, because…”

The cloaking killer rested his chin on the top of his head and uttered, “You must try. Focusing on the truth will only cause you further pain.”

“I… I guess. I’ll tr—” he started to say only for his nose to wrinkle in disgust. Pinching his T-shirt between his fingers, Quentin brought the fabric to his nose and took a whiff. He instantly recoiled at the terrible odour that assaulted his nostrils. Well that explained the foul smell from earlier. It was probably powerful enough to wake the dead—no pun intended.

Chuckling at his repulsed expression, the bell-wielding killer released him and stood up. “Perhaps you would like to wash your clothes?”

“Umm, well…” Quentin was not averse to doing so but not necessarily in their presence. Though, depending on how long he was forced to remain here, the smell was going to eventually drive him crazy or make him ill. Both outcomes were not ideal in his opinion.

“There exists a pond a few miles over yonder,” Philip declared while pointing a slim finger in a particular direction. “In the meantime, Michael will watch over you.”

“Michael wi—Wait! What ‘bout you?”

“I must see to the others,” the cloaking killer admitted, “and I doubt you would desire an audience for this.” The Wraith was truly a natural mind reader, the killer reminding him greatly of Claudette. Even so, Quentin felt dejected all the same. Philip followed Michael’s earlier example and ruffled his hair affectionately and then said, “I will return as soon as I am able young one.”

With those parting words, Quentin watched the killer strike his mighty wailing bell and disappear without trace. Now his fate and wellbeing were left in the burly hands of the silent Michael Myers. Boy what a turn of events this was. Turning around to face the quiet killer, he plastered a nervous smile on his face and stuttered out, “I-I guess it’s just you and me now huh?”

Michael responded with nothing save for a slow head tilt. At least Myers was not attempting to stab him.

Suddenly the man reached for him, his hand lighting fast as scratched fingers grasped at the tie of his bandage and pulled the cloth free. Quentin had zero time to flinch let only retaliate but none of that mattered as he gazed upon the unmarred, smooth skin of his bicep. He breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that the bizarre healing process still worked wherever he was now and that The Shape did not strangle him.

Myers then randomly flicked his nose, the action causing an embarrassing flush to flare in his cheeks. “What’d you do that for?” Quentin asked briskly while rubbing his now sore nose. He observed as the other male’s shoulders began to shake. Why was he shaking? Was the man cold? No, wait, the guy was laughing at him!

“It’s not funny!” he squealed, his mouth forming a half-hearted pout and arms crossing over his chest when Michael continued to soundlessly chuckle. The gesture, though bothersome, had Quentin feeling more at ease. He supposed the other male was not as evil as Laurie made him out to be. Unless he counted Myers teasing him as some sort of evil. If that were the case though, then Nea and Feng held the top spot for being the most sinister.

“Ugh,” Quentin huffed out uselessly. “Whatever, just… d’you know the way to this pond?”

Michael offered him a wisp of a nod and then moved a few steps away from the bed and stared at the ground pointedly. Was that code for ‘get off the bed’ or something? More than likely. Leaving his vest behind, Quentin leaped off the bed and minutely stretched his stiff muscles while The Shape grabbed one of the furs he was sleeping with and draped it over his shoulder. The man rolled his neck in a semi-circle which Quentin assumed meant ‘come on’ or ‘this way’. Either way, there was no protest given when he fell into stride with Myers so he supposed he was correct with his assumption.

Maybe this was not going to be so bad after all.

\--------------------

“Could you _not_ watch me undress?”

Another exaggerated head tilt from Michael had Quentin rolling his eyes in frustration. He stood corrected: this was bad, or rather this was annoying. They had arrived at the desired destination but Myers refused to give him any privacy.

“Look, I-I know we’re both guys,” he attempted to explain to the other, his voice coming out a little whiney. “But could you j-just… not look. For five seconds.”

He could have sworn he heard the man huff irritably—an actual distinct noise besides breathing—then promptly shook his head. Philip did say the man was going to watch over him and Michael was merely following through on that statement, but this was to the extreme.

It was not as if Quentin had not dealt with situations like this before. Back at Springwood High School, he had to change in front of his fellow swimming peers all the time. But after remembering the abuse he endured as a child and the continued torment from Freddy had him more anxious about his nudity. So how was he supposed to protect it this time around? Eyeing the fur Myers had hanging off of his shoulder gave Quentin a brilliant idea.

“Can I have that?” he asked while pointing to the fur.

Michael removed said fur from his shoulder, held it up to his masked face for a moment to curiously examine, and then handed it over. Not wasting any time, Quentin huddled underneath the giant fur and quickly shrugged out of his shirt and pants. Doing this made it so that Michael could still watch him—him covered with the fur that was—and he was given some semblance of privacy. Fortunately Myers did not decide to unveil him and defeat the purpose of this. Not that he was about to grant the other male time to do so.

Wrapping himself in the fur, he strode towards the bank of the pond and started the tedious process of washing his clothes. Beginning with his shirt, he dunked the fabric into the water for a few seconds and then inspected the shirt for any noticeable stains. Using the ground as a kind of washboard, his wrists scrubbed at every speck of dried blood and grime he came across. On a side note, he was capable of seeing his work better as this pond was oddly well-lit just like the previous area he temporarily rested within. They had to be replanting the fluorescent plants somehow. Engrossed in his task, Quentin jumped slightly when Michael crouched beside him, the man grabbing his pants and following his lead.

Stunned by the killer's actions, Quentin murmured a humble, “Y-You don’t have t—I can do that myself.”

An eerie head turn answered him which was then followed by ceaseless staring, as if the man was stalking his soul. Apparently Myers did not appreciate his words, or perhaps the killer was merely curious by them. It was all so difficult to determine. Not that he was ungrateful the help, but it was so weird watching Michael Myers—one of the most dangerous killers he had ever faced, the man who gutted him multiple times—washing his clothes like an average person. He assumed, at base level, that Michael technically _was_ an average person. Sort of… not really.

After triple checking his work and readjusting the fur draped over his slightly shivering form, Quentin hung his wet clothes over a few sturdy tree branches to dry. A faint rustling noise peeked his intrigue, his neck cranking slowly towards the sound. It turned out that the noise originated from Michael, the man crouched a ways away and plucking elongated leaves from select plants along the edges of the secluded area. Bunching a sizeable handful in one hand, Myers walked up to his sopping wet clothes and rubbed the leaves gently into the fabric.

“What’re you doing?” Quentin blurted out.

Michael ceased his actions and brought a leaf close to his face, and then offered it to him. Quentin curiously accepted the leaf and eyed it suspiciously before glancing back at Myers. The man tapped his masked nose twice and he finally took the hint: the killer wanted him to sniff it.

Cautiously bringing the leaf to his nose, Quentin inhaled deeply. The scent thankfully did not burn his nostrils or cause him to keel over as he initially feared. Instead, his nose detected a mostly woodsy scent mixed in with some kind of faint floral aroma. Whatever it was, it was a large improvement over the stench of blood, rotting plants, and body odour.

Peering around the hulking body in front of him, he spied out the specific plant the leaves were culled from. It was actually a plant he recognized well, one they sometimes used for makeshift bandages. Though the plant was hard to spot in the near pitch-black forest given its non-fluorescent nature. Guess no one ever thought to physically smell the thing.

“It smells nice,” he confessed to Michael, “but won't it stain my clothes?”

Myers shook his head and proceeded to finish massaging the leaf extract into his damp, hanging shirt and jeans.

A flash of light caught his attention and Quentin found himself whirling to the side to gaze at The Doctor for a second time, the electricity-wielding killer standing across the pond while smacking his spiked stick on his palm a few times. His heart skipped a beat at the sight, his breath freezing in his chest cavity as he stared frightfully at the man. This was bad. Before he was able to breathe a word, Michael was already stalking towards The Doctor in earnest.

The two killers eventually stopped their advance and stood a ways apart from each other with their weapons at the ready. Were they going to fight? It seemed so but the biggest question remained: who would win? The Shape was a stealthy killer, stalked his prey and learned their habits before thrusting his blade repeatedly into their respective torsos. The Doctor on the other hand was better at exhausting his targets, driving them mad with insanity before delivering the final shocking blow. Quentin allowed his eyes to latch onto Myers as he contemplated the outcome of the impending battle. Without his stealth, was Michael even capable of effectively harming the electricity-wielding killer? The silent killer was a formidable force to be reckoned with, no doubts about that, but his greatest strength came from catching his prey off guard.

He found his fingers inching towards his cross pendant and clutching it tightly. Never before did he think he would be praying for a killer but here he was. Screwing his eyelids shut, Quentin prayed for Myers to emerge victorious from this fight and for The Doctor to finally leave him, and the other killers watching over him, alone. No matter where he went, peace never seemed to exist.

A tense moment ensued, each male sizing the other up while a tiny gust of wind passed through the area. Then, they were moving. Both killers lunging forward to have their weapons collide against one another with a sharp clank.

Maintaining their connected stance, Quentin watched as The Doctor chuckled and began collecting an electrical charge in his free hand. Myers just pressed onward, his brute strength pushing through The Doctor’s defences. Each killer landed their next attack simultaneously. The Shape stabbed the electricity-wielding killer in his left shoulder and The Doctor punched an electrically charged fist into Michael’s gut. Quentin internally cheered until a burst of light emanated from the pair. Several white, nearly blinding, sparks branched outward as Myers flew backwards and landed flat on his back.

As Michael recovered, his limbs twitching slightly from the residual electricity, The Doctor ripped the man’s knife from his shoulder and tossed it into the pond—the weapon creating a pathetic little plopping noise upon impact.

Myers was unperturbed and rose to his feet with his usual, leisurely grace. In the meantime, The Doctor closed the gap between him and the other killer. The Shape grabbed the man by the throat and miraculously disarmed him of his weapon. Just as Myers posed to strike once more, The Doctor had another overpowered charge ready and blew Michael directly into the water—spiked stick included. The Doctor cackled maniacally in unconcealed pleasure, the man eyeing a drenched Michael while raising a clenched fist in the air. Quentin panicked and his heart sank when he witnessed the electrical charge building up in The Doctor’s hand. Electricity plus water equals death, his mind warned to which he snarled in annoyance at.

He had to do something, he had to do something! While he may not be very trusting of Michael at present, Quentin was not about to trade him for The Doctor anytime soon.

Searching the vicinity for anything of use, his eyes landed on a short branch lying pitifully on the ground. It was nothing special but it would have to do. Temporarily ignoring his state of undress, he raced over to the fallen piece of timber, picked it up and then hid the flimsy weapon behind his back. Pivoting towards the pair, Quentin quickly assessed the situation presented to him.

First things first, he needed to distract The Doctor and get him away from the water’s edge. It was the only way Michael would have a chance of getting out in time.

“Hey Sparky!” Quentin shouted in a menacingly angry tone.

The man cranked his head towards him, lips forcibly curled into his usual all-teeth smile. He disliked that overly pleased look, and he especially did not appreciate the thorough once over the man gave him. Nevertheless, Quentin maintained his composure and tried to appear as threatening as humanly possible, or as threatening as someone could while only sporting a pair of boxers. Thankfully, after a few seconds of simply gawking at him, The Doctor took the bait, the man momentarily forgetting about Myers and slowly sauntering towards him. Quentin held in a breath as the scuffling of shoes drew closer and his heart pounded loudly in his ears, both sounds nearly deafening. As the man stopped in front of him, it took every ounce of his willpower not to shake in fear.

“I believe we have never been properly introduced. My name is Herman. Herman Carter,” the man uttered while taking a little bow, “at your service.”

Creepy. Definitely fucking creepy, but this was okay. Quentin could distract the other male if he kept him talking. It certainly worked well on Freddy.

“Quentin,” he replied curtly to complete their introductions. Now how was he going to play this? Oh, wait a minute, he knew how. “And I don’t appreciate you coming in between Freddy and I.”

“Coming between the two of you? Heavens no,” The Doctor, Herman, clarified in a dramatic fashion. “I was merely aiding a cherished friend in need. Who am I to deprive him of his property?”

“P-P-Property!” Quentin sputtered indignantly. “I am _not_ that bastard’s property!”

“No? Yet he has already marked you as his own,” The Doctor said with an obnoxious voice while gesturing to his old scars.

“They’re battle scars!” Quentin argued as he covered his chest with his free arm. “Nothing m—”

“Or, instead of property, perhaps you prefer plaything,” the man corrected with a finger placed against his stretched lip, “or pet.”

Herman’s comments were getting on his last nerve. He begrudgingly admitted that the killer knew exactly what buttons to push, what words were going to hurt him the most. No, no! Do not dignify this twisted fuck with an answer, he internally scolded himself. Just keep your cool.

“It’s a pity you refuse to deny yourself the truth. I’m positive you’d enjoy Frederick’s company if you were more… _open_ to him.”

Why was The Doctor putting emphasis on the word ‘open’ so much? At his likely perplexed look, the killer meaningfully eyed his face and groin. Okay, what the fuck? Sighing tiredly at him, Herman began sensually tracing the outline of his straining lips. Was that a clue? What was this guy d—Wait! Open… open? Open! Open as in open _orifice?!_ Why that wide-eyed, disgusting son of a bitch!

Growling in uncharacteristic rage, Quentin brandished his feeble weapon and swung it with a vengeance. The center of the branch successfully connected with the killer’s skull only to immediately splinter into dozens of tiny pieces. Herman repositioned his crazed eyes on Quentin, his ever present smiling widening even further as his orbs twinkled with utter mirth. Goddammit!

Quentin dodged the fist aimed at his stomach but failed to avoid the other one which struck him across the face. The force of the electrical current blew him sideways to the ground. A yelp erupted from his throat as he winced in pain from the fall, the solid ground biting into his hip and side unforgivingly while he trembled from the left over electricity. Additionally the fall somehow managed to slice his cheek open, the abused flesh stinging sharply as blood dribbled out from the freshly made gash.

“I envy Frederick for his good fortune,” Herman piped up, the voice drawing his attention back towards his attacker standing but a foot away. “Defiance is so magnificent to _break_.”

“Fuck you,” Quentin seethed after spitting a wad of saliva at the man's feet. He was never going to break!

A shrill screech abruptly pierced his fragile eardrums, and then Quentin, with mouth agape, discovered The Nurse floating above him with her bone saw lodged deeply into Herman’s chest. He was unable to see around his saviour, but he did catch a glimpse of boots just behind the pair before him. A wet, metallic noise rang out only for a squelching sound to take its place. Judging from her movement, The Nurse had probably stabbed Herman for a second time. Then there was a third squelching noise, only this one lasted longer and apparently involved far more blood if the fairly large crimson pool accumulating on the ground was of any indication. When The Nurse finally moved out of his line of sight, he watched a headless body collapse dully to the earth with Michael stoically holding up Herman’s head.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered in horror. Myers sawed The Doctor’s neck o—He fucking decapitated the bastard! Guess Michael did not need to be protected, and Quentin was not about to doubt the boogeyman and his skills again anytime soon.

Still practically naked, his mind opted to remind him. Flushing in embarrassment once more, he booked it over to the forgotten fur laying a few strides away and bundled himself in it. This settled it; he did not care if he puked. If he never had to deal with something like this again, he was more than willing to parade around covered in filth.

A tattered gown entered his peripheral vision and Quentin peered upward to stare at The Nurse. Was she going to hurt him? It seemed doubtful considering the effort she went through to save him. Regardless, he remained wary of the floating killer, his anxiety increasing exponentially when she leaned down to cup his chin. He made to shake her off but her grip was strong, her dainty hand tilting his face to the side to examine his injured cheek. She hovered without further action for a mere moment before producing a small, damp rag which the killer instantly pressed against the bleeding gash. After the cut was deemed sufficiently clean, the woman pulled out a bandage from her pocket and smoothed it over his cheek. Okay, where were they getting these supplies from? Did they receive items from the Entity too? Honestly these guys had way more than the survivors ever did. Life was so unfair sometimes.

“Umm, th-thank you. Uh...”

The Nurse abruptly thrusted a finger into the air and then bent over to draw something into the loose dirt in front of him.

Like Myers, she appeared to be another non-speaking killer. When the woman had finished, Quentin glanced down to observe four distinct letters to which he read aloud. “S. A. L. L. Y. Sally?”

The Nurse, Sally, nodded in response and he gave her a beaming smile. It was essentially the only thing he could offer the woman in gratitude.

“Thank you Sally,” he repeated in a heartfelt tone.

Sally nodded again and urged him to sit down. He obliged, dropping down at the base of a knobby tree while The Nurse floated down beside him. Normally he would be freaking out with how close the other was to him, and especially in his current state of undress, but he did not see any point in uselessly panicking. If Sally truly was a threat then Michael would have attacked her.

The woman rested her head gently on his shoulder, and nuzzled her concealed face contently into the fluffy fur, while Myers vanished into the forest with Herman’s lifeless body parts. Throwing caution to the wind, Quentin allowed himself to relax and offered Sally one of his hands. She gratefully welcomed the hand, her own softly clasping their fingers together as they basked in each other’s wordless company.

There truly was more to these supposedly ruthless killers than met the eye.


	3. Illness

Sleep.

Such a wonderous, precious and peaceful concept—especially without a certain barbequed asshole haunting his dreams—granting but what felt like a moment of pure, uninterrupted bliss. A moment, evidently, which flitted away upon re-entering the waking world.

The second he was roused from his unconscious paradise, his vacation away from hell in a sense, a violent and hackly cough forced its way passed his dry lips. Several more ensued, the harsh noises enough to awaken Sally whom immediately cradled him in her thin arms. The woman eyed him curiously before placing her forehead against his own. Why was everything so warm?

The Nurse let out a low, disheartened-sounding screech and then tucked his head gently into the crevice of her chest.

As the sleepy hazy cleared, a vast amount of input quickly overwhelmed his mind: his body was far too hot, the increase in temperature flaring dangerously underneath his skin like bubbling magma about to spew; his throat was tingling and irritated, the sensation equivalent to swallowing an insect and the little menace trying to bite and claw its way out to freedom; his muscles ached dully when he attempted to shift a leg and rub at the underside of his sluggish eyes; his vision was getting fuzzier by the minute, and even rapid blinking did nothing to fix the issue; and his brain felt as though it was swimming in a bathtub filled with molasses.

This could not be happening.

Somehow, Quentin had managed to contract a cold of all things, something he thought impossible in this world. The Entity always kept them—the survivors anyhow—in relatively good health: keeping them all free of infection and disease, ensuring they were unable to starve, and mending any injuries they acquired. Guess the list did not include potential illness. Why was his luck unsalvageable and destined to remain horrendous no matter the circumstances? And where could he have possibly picked up this virus?

He supposed it was pointless to analyze the logistics of it too greatly. Bottom line: he was sick, and he _loathed_ being sick.

A wave of dizziness flooded his system when he was suddenly hoisted into sturdy arms. Yes, definitely sturdy, which meant Sally was not the one carrying him to lord knows where. A tiny tilt of the head upward revealed a blob of white in the shape of an abnormally sized watermelon. Anna perhaps, assuming the woman had returned from her trial. No, maybe it was Myers. He doubted The Huntress was able to carry him like this with her overly large axe.

His palm brushed over something sleek and solid, the sensation oddly soothing to his heated skin. Gliding his fingers across the mystery object, his index finger discovered a sharp edge which continued in a straight line to some kind of a stub. What was this?

Peering down into his lap, his eye caught a faint glimmer of light reflecting off of a metallic blade.

It was Michael’s signature kitchen knife, the one he frequently feared to meet within trials. Well this confirmed his earlier theory as to whom was carting him around, but to be trusted with such a treasured item was unexpected. Myers had always been very attached to his knife and kept it in hand nearly all the time. Not that he had any plans to rob the boogeyman of his weapon, but the man could have easily handed it off to Sally for safekeeping too. Or had she left him in Michael’s capable hands?

A series of coughs interrupted his thought process, the noises jarring enough to essentially alert anyone to their respective position in the forest. Groaning miserably at his new affliction, Quentin merely shimmied more comfortably in Michael’s embrace and allowed the other male to take him wherever. It was not as though he was capable of protesting anyways. Not without hacking up a lung or collapsing in a heap of limbs. How did some minuscule cough escalate so damn quickly into a full-blown... whatever?

Softness abruptly tickled at the back of his neck while the bubble of heat he had been engulfed in decreased. It took Quentin a moment to crank his reluctant eyelids open and gaze down at soft furs surrounded by blue blobs at the edges. This was... the bed he had initially slept on, so then the blue blobs must be the fluorescent plants. Good grief. Even these simple, mundane little details were too exhausting for his mind to process.

Wait, was he still partially naked? Crap. With what little strength he could muster, Quentin buried himself under the furs in humiliation. He did not desire any more people seeing him in this state.

Light, insistent taps rapped against his skull which caused him to poke his head out from under the covers and glare spitefully at the culprit. Sally stood, or rather hovered, by the bedside with his jeans and T-shirt in hand, the colours all blurring together to produce an interesting blue-brown-white hue. She briefly raised the articles of clothing higher into the air, as if displaying them to him, before placing them by his side. Not a second passed before he was snatching both items and hastily redonning them underneath the concealing furs, his jerky movements agitating his sludge-riddled brain.

Once complete, he resurfaced at the head of the bed to see Sally holding even more items—this time it was his shoes, socks and beanie. Sally mimicked her earlier action of displaying them to him before placing them somewhere on the ground near the foot of the bed.

A surprised squeak, sounding more akin to a croak, pushed passed his lips when Myers lifted the back of his skull momentarily. When the touch went away, he noted the extra padding now cushioning his head and the familiar woodsy floral scent he recently came to enjoy. Judging by the feel, he had to assume Michael put his vest under his head to act as a makeshift pillow.

This was all so touching yet, strangely enough, he did not feel entirely deserving of it. Nevertheless, he attempted to speak, to thank Sally and Michael for their generosity and kindness, but The Nurse silenced him with a finger to his lips. Sally gave but a single nod, in what he guessed to be understanding, while Myers ruffled his stringy curls affectionately. Next, the boogeyman gestured to him with a finger and then two of his fingers slowly ran over the eyeholes of his mask from top to bottom.

‘Close your eyes’ was likely what the man was trying to say, or ‘sleep’ maybe, and he did not need to be told twice. Choking back another annoying cough, he maneuvered his body into a comfy position and forced his himself to relax—or, more accurately, cooperate—and shut down once more.

\--------------------

An intense increase in heat followed by suffocating air now suddenly plagued his infirm body. Why was it so hot, and why was there smoke everywhere? Was he… shit!

He was in the dreamworld again, his body lying haphazardly on the grungy floor of the ever-constant boiler room.

Freddy had come back.

Unsteadily rising to his feet, Quentin moved painstakingly slow through the maze of rusty pipes and decaying machinery in an effort to find a fracture. Freddy was probably going to bait him with it again, let him get close to the fracture before forcing it somewhere else—as if it were a piece of flimsy furniture being thrown out a window. But he did not give a flying fuck. He was in no condition to fight or cry out for help anyways, although his pride too prevented him from doing the latter. If there was any chance of getting out of this asphyxiating heat intact, or marginally so, he was taking it.

Then again, what would happen if Freddy were to kill him? Perhaps he might be resurrected near the survivor campfire, be reunited with his friends fully healed and ready to tackle the horrors of this world again. Or maybe he would revive here with the killers or, hell, maybe he would not come back at all.

“Where’re you going Quen?” Freddy called out from behind. A lazy glance back revealed a fuzzy figure leaning on some equally blurry pipes. “Doncha wanna play with me?”

No, and fuck this! He was not dying to this bastard if he could help it. Ignoring the futility of his actions, Quentin burst into a sprint and frantically searched for an exit.

“‘Cause I sure as hell wanna play with _you!_” the dream demon shouted angrily, the words echoing out as a clear threat.

Round and round he ran, up and down and back again. Freddy, unsurprisingly, decided to toy with him first instead of dishing out whatever bullshit the man had in store for him. The dream demon permitted him to dart every which way like a wild and confused stallion. Though undoubtably a horse was more graceful and coordinated than he was right now. Honestly, he nearly blacked out every time he climbed a flight of stairs. How the hell was he supposed to spot a fracture if his vision kept tunneling into darkness?

Quentin ascended yet another rusted staircase and took a sharp right turn, but his world instantly spiralled out of his control. His legs collapsed out from underneath him and he fell off the catwalk, his ears ringing and stomach smarting relentlessly upon impact with the floor. Had he just… had there been railing on that catwalk? There should have been but he was unable to recall.

A shoe unceremoniously rolled him over onto his back while a voice from above teased, “Someone’s a little clumsy.”

“Fuck off,” he grumbled out only to immediately break into another coughing fit.

This was a disaster. No, this was his _worst_ fuck-up yet: a combination of sick and stupid equating to a shameful loss. Why had he insisted on traversing up so many stairs? Too late now. Allowing his head to loll back against the floor, Quentin shut his eyes and waited for the inevitable pain of claws tearing into him. Or so he believed.

Only when a dull pressure erupted from his chest did he reopen his orbs. Freddy now rested on his torso—in what position however was unknown—and remained uncharacteristically silent. Although, the man’s mangled face spoke for him. He blearily registered the shock present there, something he had expected. But then the dream demon plastered on an odd sort of expression, one which he had nothing else to compare to. It almost appeared as if the man was frowning, but not really. Was he upset that his ‘favourite boy’ was unable to entertain him? Jackass.

A pair of scratchy lips tenderly kissed his forehead, the gesture causing the rosy flush already colouring his cheeks to deepen dramatically. What the… what was Freddy doing? Then those mangled lips left along with the pressure crushing his back into the dirty floor. Quentin whimpered at the feeling of being airborne again but, fortunately, it was short-lived as he was instantly deposited onto a much softer surface.

His hands moved in small circles to feel cool fabric while the scent of clean linen flooded his nostrils. Where was… was he on a bed? Had he been woken up? Oh thank god, thank…

The slightly blurry sight of a grimy fedora proved him false and he could not suppress the resulting pitiful whimpers and cries of despair. Freddy was preparing to rape him.

Whimpers quickly transformed into wet hiccups which then escalated into more disgustingly wet and horrendous coughs. When the dreadful things finally receded, Quentin found himself being gingerly tucked under the tan-coloured covers and his head positioned on a fluffy white pillow. Was this... what was this? Was this truly a nightmare or was he actually conjuring up this weirdness? It certainly felt real.

Shifting an eye towards the dream demon sitting beside him on the edge of the bed, Quentin croaked out a perplexed, “Freddy?”

The man quietly shushed him while using his finger to brush sweat-slicked curls from his broiling forehead. Quentin had the overwhelming urge to flee but his limbs remained content to stay immobile. His whole body in fact had simply stopped responding, like a circuit being cut off from its main power supply, as his surroundings blurred left and right.

Warm… it was way too warm. Let this end already… please.

He vaguely heard the sound of something dripping onto the floor. Or was it the ground? Next, he registered something cold and damp rest on his forehead. Whatever it was chilled his burning flesh and soothed the headache currently pounding away within his skull.

Blinking away the fuzziness overtaking his sight, he noticed that the dream demon had suddenly been replaced by Sally, the woman hovering in close to softly cup his cheek with one hand. He leaned into the pleasant touch, his body relaxing as his orbs closed.

Yet, when he cracked his eyes open again, The Trapper was now sitting at his bedside, the sight causing his heart to start galloping sporadically. Quentin made to spring up from the bed, but the killer held him down with a firm hand and said, “Relax boy.”

Another talking and friendly killer? Bullshit. Something freaky was going on here, or was this simple mental bullshit?

“Wha—”

“You’ll feel worse if you continue to struggle,” The Trapper explained calmly yet with a stern tone of voice.

Quentin reluctantly remained still yet whimpered out a frightened, “D-Don’t hurt m—”

“I have no intention of hurting you.”

“Then…” He attempted to say more but his words died in his inflamed throat.

“My name is Evan MacMillan,” the killer formally introduced, “and it’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance despite the circumstances.”

Quentin merely hummed in response before his eyelids fluttered shut without his permission. He understood now: he was drifting in and out of consciousness, his reality shifting from the waking world to the dreamworld and back again. If anything, this was all some bizarre, fever-induced dream.

The furs, or was it covers, were pulled back and then his shirt was being striped from his torso. Scrunching his eyebrows together in confusion, he forced his orbs to open yet again to find Freddy throwing his soaked T-shirt to the side.

“N-No,” he began to sob out, “no, p-please no.”

Freddy again said nothing, as did his face. No snarling, no taunts, no obnoxious laughter or smiles whatsoever. The man was akin to a brick wall right now: imposing and emotionless. Instead of feeling him up or mocking his scars per usual, Freddy ran a second damp cloth over his sweat-drenched chest. He hated to admit how nice it was to feel less sticky and gross, and not to mention the pleasantly cool sensation the cloth brought. Just not from Krueger!

When the dream demon grasped his precious necklace however, he lashed out with shocking speed, his nails digging into the other’s hand hard enough to draw blood.

“Don’t touch it,” he hissed out.

Freddy ignored the puny threat and merely grabbed the cord instead, pinching the string between his fingers and dragging the piece of jewellery to the side. Afterwards, the man proceeded to wipe down the remaining areas of his torso with an immense amount of care.

More nauseating blurs forced his body to still and his eyelids to pinch shut in discomfort. He really did not wish to puke.

“Drink,” a raspy voice commanded in his ear.

“Hmm?”

The Hag now stood at his bedside, with Sally hovering by her side, the woman holding out a wooden—likely carved out—tankard-looking container in his direction.

Not again. Why were so many killers fussing over him? Why was _Freddy_ of all people fussing over him? He absolutely could not comprehend any of this.

“I-I don’t,” he stuttered out, completely apprehensive over the green tinted liquid thrusted near his mouth. “W-We don’t drink t—”

“Just drink,” The Hag repeated more insistently with Sally nodding along. If The Nurse was in agreement, then surely the other woman was not intent on poisoning him. Hopefully.

The tankard was placed at his lips and, with some coaxing, he eventually downed the mystery liquid. It tasted just as repulsive as it smelled, like bitter leaf-flavoured water with a hint of tree bark and some dirt on the side. Regardless, The Hag looked happy with his cooperation assuming he was not hallucinating that rigid smile. Or maybe she was trying to kill him, and that elated expression of hers was actually excitement over watching him willingly down the concoction. Quentin prayed that was not the truth even if death sounded rather appealing right now.

In the blink of an eye, his scenery shifted once more. Freddy returned the soft blankets to cover his now dry, but still naked, torso. Did the sick fuck already have his _fun_ with him? It did not feel like he had been violated.

Oh wait! Worried, he shuffled his arm about to find his precious necklace still hanging from its rightful place around his neck. Freddy had not taken it away. Why?

“Freddy,” he groaned out between dry lips, “why?”

Again, he was left without a verbal response and only a blank, penetrating stare from miscoloured and caring eyes. A stare which started to fuzz in and out of focus as his head swam uncomfortably in a thick fog. His forehead cloth was replaced with a fresh one followed by a palm running down his cheek. All was quiet until Freddy opted to hum a familiar tune, something the man used to do for all the kids at Badham in an attempt to lull them to sleep. And, god forbid, it was working, the old lullaby gradually pushing him into blissful unconsciousness.

The soothing tune resurfaced a beautiful, happy memory too. He and his other classmates were settling down for naptime. Everyone grabbed a colourful mat, whichever struck their fancy for the day, and then chose the perfect spot on the carpet to sleep on. However, everybody had been so wound up and rowdy from playing outside. All of them were essentially irregularly shaped, human-like batteries, multiplied by thirteen, with a seemingly endless lifelong duration of power. None of them were falling asleep anytime soon and Mrs. Russel and Mrs. Winton had nearly screamed in frustration, both women obviously at their wits’ end. But then Freddy had stepped in and decided to chant a special lullaby to everyone. First loudly, and with all the kids joining in, and then the gardener softly repeated it until his voice reached a whisper. Before Quentin had even realized it, he had fallen asleep with all the others. The lullaby had been enchanting at the time and, despite his hatred of the dream demon, it still remained so now.

He was again roused from his slumber when the happy tune changed pitch, and then completely changed altogether. Sluggishly opening one eyelid, he gazed upon Anna sitting at the foot of the bed, the burly woman humming her usual lullaby she always did during trials. She appeared to be absorbed in her task of polishing the hatchet in her hands yet her head tilted his way every so often.

The throbbing in his skull peaked, the sudden agony driving a pained whimper from his sore esophagus and a few tears from the corners of his eyes. His hands rose up to clutch at his skull in an effort to relieve the ache but, before his hands reached their destination, a different pair of hands encompassed the sides of his head.

A quick glance upward revealed Philip to be the one clutching his skull tenderly.

Philip provided a gentle pressure, nothing too compressing but just enough alleviate a fair bit of the pain. It reminded him of reiki, a therapeutic technique his father used to receive for his stress and Quentin never understood how amazingly effective it actually was until now.

“Thank you,” he muttered, not only to Philip but to the rest of them as well. Hopefully the bell-wielding killer would pass the message along for him since he had no idea who was actually around here.

Well, excluding Freddy obviously. Freddy was confusing the fuck out of him.

Grumbling under his breath, he murmured into the air, “Fucking Freddy.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” the dream demon tutted disapprovingly at him. “Watch your mouth.”

Freddy readjusted the blankets around his body, fluffing them up and making sure they were properly surrounding his entire body. Again with the additional, unwarranted care. Why?

“Why?” he voiced tiredly. “Why ar—”

“You’re not as much fun to play with when you’re sick,” the man swiftly explained with a smirk. And yet… that smirk, normally twisted and sickening to look at, was half-assed. Forced even.

Freddy was lying. Freddy was lying? Or was he imagining things again?

“I don’t get you,” he whined in frustration, the shrillness in his tone aggravating his own eardrums.

“What’d you say?” Max questioned from his side.

Sighing in annoyance from the lack of consistency, he drove his skull deeper into his folded vest and choked out a gruff, “I-I said… said thank you.”

“You’re gonna be alright kid,” Max expressed with a soft smile. “You just gotta kick that nasty fever of yours.”

And get his reality under control. Constantly switching between multiple people was annoying the heck out of him.

Almost predictably, his vision began to blur again. Max and his flesh-coloured skin morphed into a different colour and shape, something pink and bulbous looking. A… pig? A _fucking_ pig? No, a pig-head, like a giant mask or something. Why was his mind conjuring up the image of a pig? Was this some kind of universal sign telling him to eat pork?

“Don’t worry mop-top,” the pig-head assured with a muffled, feminine tone of voice. A hand crossed his field of vision to ruffle his hair leisurely. “The game’s not over for you yet.”

Game? What game? What the hell was going on?

All he knew was processed in a whirlwind of broken memory fragments: Evan reciting the intriguing history of the MacMillan Estate; The Hag—supposedly named Lisa—forcing more leafy-barky-dirty tasting water down his throat; Anna continuously humming her sweet lullaby; Sally brushing more lose bangs from his forehead; Philip holding his head while eyeing him sadly; Max readjusting the furs when he shuffled around too much; and the mystery pig-head musing his hair.

He snarled around a cough lodged in his windpipe before exasperatedly whispering, “What’s going on?”

The feeling of the mattress dipping piqued his attention, his eyes watching as Freddy lifted the covers back to climb in and coil around his body.

“Sleep,” the dream demon commanded in a gentle tone.

Sleeping with unwanted sweater-clad arms embracing him was the furthest thing from his mind. Although, those infernal hands had yet to grope him or dive lower to grasp at something else. They were just there. Nonetheless, he began to squirm, his weak limbs doing their best to shake off the offending growth trying to merge with him.

“L-Lemme go,” he whimpered, “lemme g—”

A white, latex mask invading his sight halted his protests flat. Instead of Freddy holding him, it was now Myers, the tall man curling around him almost possessively. Michael’s masked forehead rested gently against his own before the boogeyman nudged his head underneath a sturdy chin.

Utterly exhausted with everything going on, Quentin simply decided to give in and surrender to the weirdness for the time being. Besides, it was rather comfy being cradled within Freddy’s arms. Or Michael’s arms. He meant Michael. Whatever.

Unbeknownst to him, Quentin had started to cry for no particular reason. Tears overflowing from his ducts in waves while his body began to shiver uncontrollably. Arms tightened a degree above snug around him in response, the gesture supposedly meant to calm him down or comfort him. He did not know anymore.

“Don’t cry angelfish. You’re my little fighter,” Freddy professed with fondness before placing a chaste kiss to his temple, “my special, brave boy… and you’re gonna beat this.” The dream demon shifted his head to lock gazes with him to creepily utter, “And then we’ll catch up on our playtime together.”

Goddammit. What Quentin would not give to be completely unconscious: a blank, black state of unconsciousness with nothing save for the endless abyss to greet him. Fisting his fingers into the man’s sweater, he pulled himself closer into Freddy’s embrace, his head tucking into the crevice the other’s neck. Little by little, his chills subsided and his breathing evened out into a faint, gentle rhythm. His eyes fluttered closed for the hundredth time as Freddy sung contently into his damp hair.

Just this once, he would pretend this actually made sense to him. Just this once, he would let his mind drift into a state of acceptance. Just this once, he would play along with this mind game.

Just this once, he would surrender to his worst nightmare.


	4. Hangman

Awareness trickled back into his sluggish mind like a gentle stream flowing into an empty basin, the water gradually filling it to the brim. A familiar woodsy-floral scent coupled with a faint metallic-like aroma filtered through his nostrils, the combination of smells oddly intoxicating to inhale. Varying materials, ranging from soft to coarse, glided across his skin as he subtly shifted about in his prone position. A comfortable warmth held his body in an unwavering embrace, the heat acting as a shield against whatever may lurk outside of its range. Tiny breaths from the gentle breeze whispered blissful nothingness into his exposed ear while an utterly soothing sensation radiated from his scalp.

Each of those bits of sensory information eventually grew more prominent and roused his sleepy brain into alertness. Eyelids fluttering minutely, Quentin took a second to yawn and stretch his stiff limbs underneath the furs. He squeaked in surprise when a pair of broad arms latched onto his torso and dragged him backwards against a solid surface.

Frightfully averting his wide eyes to the source, his breath caught in his throat at the mere sight of shrouded eyes staring at him through a white latex mask. Myers! Quentin panicked for a fraction of a second before remembering precisely where he was and the company that resided here.

Exhaling in relief, he then contentedly relaxed into Michael’s hold, his own hands coming up to cling onto the arms encircling his body. The boogeyman never ceased to scare the living daylight out of him, but at least the man seemed to be making it up to him in his own unique way.

“Thanks Michael,” Quentin softly expressed to the silent killer before immediately bursting into a coughing fit.

Oh right... he was _still_ fucking sick.

Likely to alleviate his discomfort, Myers eased him into a sitting position while maintaining a firm hold on his shoulders. Quentin hacked up two more horrendously dry and useless coughs before groaning miserably to himself. Clutching the column of his neck, he leaned back into Michael’s touch and tried to process things.

His throat was slightly irritated though the coughing was escalating the dryness. Random muscle aches plagued his limbs while a chill from within radiated throughout his body. Was he not warm just a moment ago?

Despite these vexing symptoms however, his sickness seemed to be milder than before. A blessed miracle in disguise, one he might openly praise if he was not still suffering. In actuality, he owed his partial recovery to the people here, the supposed merciless killers of this world. How ironic.

Which, now that he pondered it, meant a piece of his gratitude extended to Freddy too. Quentin instantly cringed at such a grotesque notion. While abnormally pleasant, that one moment between them did not absolve the dream demon of his many sins. There were still enemies, and he would eventually find a means of destroying the heartless monster for good.

“Heartless,” he softly mumbled under his breath.

Was Freddy truly heartless? Quentin remained utterly baffled by the man’s behaviour towards him in the dreamworld. He had been easy prey, vulnerable and incapable of properly defending himself. The sick bastard had the perfect opportunity to take advantage of him, recreate whatever perverted fantasy he desired or simply watch him suffer through his illness. So why had the dream demon... did Freddy actually care about his wellbeing?

Quentin abruptly burst into a fit of laughter which promptly transformed into guttural coughs. If anything, Freddy _cared _aboutkeeping his favourite boy healthy for his own twisted interests. After all, the asshole did sound rather excited about playing with him later on. Fucking gross.

Michael stroked his back soothingly throughout his self-induced coughing fit and then tugged him into a sideways embrace. Touched by such sweetness, Quentin gratefully settled into it. His orbs lazily focused on the killer’s overalls, the faded dark blue colour clashing with faint singe marks still visible from Michael’s earlier tussle with Herman.

His defensive instincts told him not to become too complacent with Myers or any of the other killers. Such kind behaviour on their part was only temporary after all. When he was, hopefully, returned to his fellow survivors, this—whatever precisely _this_ was between them—would conclude. He had to remember that, like Freddy, all of them were his enemies though he wished it was not so.

His self-reassurance was interrupted by wisps of fog rolling to surround Michael. The boogeyman seemed ill-phased by it and merely maneuvered himself off the bed.

“Michael,” Quentin spoke while he watched the killer clench his fist tightly around his blade, “I kn-know you don’t have a... could you just... please don’t kill them.”

The Shape however appeared to ignore his request which caused his heart to rapidly sink. A frustrated groan escaped him when Myers was finally carried off to do the bidding of their captor. He knew the killer had to perform, as Philip put it, but was it necessary to kill all of them? Surely one or two was sufficient enough to please the Entity.

“He’s very overprotective of you.”

Quentin jumped out of his skin at the sound, his eyes searching left and right for the source.

“Most of them seem to be,” the voice continued.

This time Quentin was able to confirm that the speaker had indeed been a woman. But which one? This voice sounded clear which implied that it did not belong to Anna, as her voice was too gruff, and not to Sally, as she did not talk—as far as he was concerned. And then there was Lisa, but her voice was too raspy, so... maybe The Nurse could speak?

“Sally?” Quentin tried cautiously while withholding another cough.

“Guess again mop top.”

Mop top? What the hell… why did that sound so familiar? Rifling through his memories, his eyes gradually widen in realization. This voice belonged to the mystery pig, the one who kept musing his sweaty curls while he was barely lucid.

Anxiously scanning the moderately lit vicinity, he quietly asked, “Pig?”

“Now you got it.”

His orbs darted immediately to the right at the sound of rustling leaves. A woman emerged from the bush shortly afterwards, the female supposedly hiding behind it this entire time. He noted that her attire consisted of a simple red cloak and, of course, her distinctive mask to match his nickname for her. The mask was quite realistic looking too as it possessed not only a bulbous shape resembling an actual pig head but also ears and a semi-wrinkled snoot.

Caught up in her appearance, it took Quentin a second to realize that he was alone with this woman—a new, potentially bloodthirsty killer with the opportunity to strike. Where were the other killers?

At her approach, Quentin sprang out of the bed only to feel his world spiral. His sight was smudged with blue and black blurs while his jelly legs sidestepped awkwardly in the dirt until his limbs gave out entirely. Steady hands narrowly prevented his face from landing on a patch of fluorescent flowers, their dull glow oddly painful to look at directly. When his fuzzy vision dissipated a moment later, he found his back propped up against the bed frame with the woman sitting beside him.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

Quentin grumbled at the statement and then shot an equally grumpy pout at the mysterious pig. Her playful tone reminded him of the girls and their love of teasing him—especially Nea, Meg, and Feng. No, no, no. This was not the time to be letting his guard down no matter how frail it was right now. Freddy was an excellent teacher in regards to how distracting sweet talk could be.

He racked his gaze over the new killer from head to toe in search of a weapon. If Quentin acted quickly, and without being hindered by his sickened state, then he might steal her weapon and use it to defend himself. And what was it exactly? A sickle? Maybe spiked chains or a sword? She seemed too small in stature to wield something large like a club or The Huntress’s gigantic axe.

“I’m not gonna hurt you.” Oops. Apparently his blatant staring had not gone unnoticed though he was a touch embarrassed at being so easily read. Or perhaps she was not a total idiot like he had hoped.

“But you’re armed, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she replied while flexing her right wrist to reveal a hidden switchblade, “I’m armed, but m’not gonna hurt you mop top. I’d have already done it if I wanted to.”

Quentin frowned at the collapsible blade faintly glinting in the aero blue lighting. There appeared to be no simple way of taking it from her without the killer catching on, and he did not wish to experience her possibly deathly ire too soon. And what the hell was up with the nickname? While he normally let such things slide with other survivors, he was not above dishing out his own teasing when the occasion arose.

Acting out of reckless foolishness, he cheekily booped her snoot and inquired, “D’you have a name Miss Piggy?”

The killer cackled some, the noises sounding rather ominous coming through the mask. Instead of coupling those cackles with a swing of her switchblade, the woman grasped her pig head and pulled it off.

“My name’s Amanda,” the female offered in greeting as she flung her hair away from her eyes.

“Quentin,” he croakily responded without thought, his eyes glued to her features. Amanda, unlike several of her fellow killers, did not possess a monstrous appearance. It was the first time Quentin ever witnessed a ‘normal’ looking killer: her pale, flawless complexion highlighted the rise of her cheekbones; her long, dark brown hair—which he initially thought was protruding from a hole in the top part of her pig head—framed her face in an almost gentle manner; and her dark eyes were both stunning and frightening with the varies emotions flittering across them. “Your...”

“What?”

“M’sorry, it’s just that you look so, uh,” he stammered out while struggling to find the right word, “normal... for-for a killer.”

“Hmph. Even of the most insidious of killers seem harmless, innocent.”

“I...” Quentin was keen to protest until an image of Freddy, the unburned and compassionate one, popped into his brain. That man had robbed thirteen children of their innocence while playing the role of a sweet gardener and then, eventually, claimed their very lives when their honesty condemned him to death. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Thinking now, he too might have been considered a ‘killer’ if he had managed to slay Freddy in the real world. Or perhaps telling the truth somehow made him the true killer… whatever. His reasons for destroying the sick fuck were not so sinister in his eyes; they were justified.

“So,” Amanda abruptly spoke, “what d’you think?”

Focusing back on the woman beside him, he could not help but snicker. Most likely during his intense pondering, Amanda had donned his beanie and was now wearing it proudly with a seemingly carefree smile.

“Looks good on you,” Quentin truthfully remarked, “but m’not sure the colour matches your outfit though.”

“Hmm, is that so?” Her tone was difficult to place but it mattered not as Amanda retaliated by covering his skull with her pig head. A few giggles, which sounded muffled to his ears, followed quickly afterwards. “You make the cutest pig.”

Her comment went unheard as Quentin was too preoccupied with his current situation. “Oh god, h-how… how do you see out of this?” he questioned while feeling for the eye holes with his fingers. “And the smell, ugh… it’s so bad.”

More snickers caused him to cross his arms and grumble under his breath. Clearly she was incredibly amused by his reaction and, secretly, he was happy for the pleasant mood between them. Despite this, Quentin remained a touch bothered by her earlier statement and decided to project his own opinion.

“But, uh, not all killers are the same y’know,” he randomly blurted out while removing the disgusting pig head. His nostrils revelled in the fresh air, a deep and greedy inhale of it unfortunately bringing on another wave of dry coughs.

“Oh yeah? How so?” Amanda asked, the young woman sounding genuinely curious as she patiently waited for him to recover. He was grateful that she refrained from touching him as he was still apprehensive of her.

“Their reasoning for killing,” Quentin explained after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Some kill for the thrill of it, for revenge, or for power or whatever, but some kill to protect other people. Save lives—”

“And you believe that justifies their actions?”

“Not completely,” he confessed, “but compared to a serial killer, yeah, I do.”

Amanda averted her eyes to the cluttered field before them and firmly said, “I disagree.”

“Why?” His response was instant and yet Quentin could not help but fear the answer.

“Regardless of their intentions, they still _killed_. They’re not innocent,” she argued as her eyes stayed glued to the scenery, “and they’re not redeemable. No one ever is.”

Offended by her words, Quentin angrily stated, “I tried to kill an undead rapist so that my friend and I could live in peace! Does that make me irredeemable?”

A pregnant pause ensued where it seemed as though Amanda was not going to answer him. Eventually, her eyes briefly connected with his as she uttered, “Freddy?”

“H-How did you—”

“You were mumbling his name a lot in your sleep, and it wasn’t hard to put two and two together after the others vaguely explained your connection to him.”

While speaking, Quentin observed as Amanda drew lines into the dirt. Each drag of her finger eventually formed a rectangular box. Next, she drew two parallel lines branching out from the top which then curved into a backwards ‘u’ to form a hook of sorts. Only when Amanda began drawing a stick figure did Quentin realize what was being drawn: it was a hanging man.

“Anyways,” she resumed while adding the finishing touches to her drawing, “everyone will eventually end up hanging themselves with their own noose. People don’t change no matter what trials they’re put through.”

Mimicking her previous words, he strongly asserted, “I disagree.”

“So then,” Amanda voiced slowly, “you think Freddy is redeemable?”

Quentin went to immediately answer otherwise but his response froze in his throat. Either answer, whether yes or no, was one he disliked. Freddy certainly did not seem redeemable in his eyes. One kind deed did not redeem a man of his deplorable debauchery and murder, he believed this without a doubt, but did several good deeds?

He wanted to say no yet his heart weighed heavily on the morality of such a response. Frankly, the queasy feeling plaguing his insides remained unchanged when he thought of his father—his abusive, ignorant father—being redeemable. It was depressing to lump the man and Freddy into the same emotional category, but it was the truth. Both males had similar negative impacts on his life, but Freddy clearly had done more damage to him than his father. So why did his heart ache equally for the both of them? Perhaps he needed to hardened his heart.

“I... I don’t wanna say yes,” Quentin admitted after careful thought, “but I can’t say no either.”

“D’you think Freddy doesn’t deserve to be redeemed?” Amanda tried next.

The sick fuck definitely did not deserve it in his opinion yet again his mouth betrayed him by voicing nothing. Why was he unable to spit out a simple yes?

“It’s alright,” Amanda said as she effectively interrupted his thought process, “I understand.”

“What d’you mean?”

“There were many who saw my father, well my mentor actually,” she corrected with a subtle shrug, “as irredeemable.”

“Who was your fa—I mean, your mentor?”

“Some saw him as a symbol of something intangible, a mastermind, but most saw him as a murderer… I know I did.” Her stony orbs eyed him strangely as she continued with, “He saw the world differently than others, saw people differently. He would orchestrate games for select individuals, those he wished to test.”

“Test?” he commented with interest. “Test for what?”

“Their survival instinct,” she declared, “an overlooked or forgotten piece of their intricate puzzle. He gave them all a choice, a way of redeeming themselves by surviving the games he engineered for them.”

“He gave them a choice?” Quentin skeptically asked. “What, like, stop killing or I’ll blow your brains out with a shotgun?”

Amanda snorted and then said, “Not quite like that. John gave them all the tools they needed to survive on their own, and all they had to do was follow the rules.”

Quentin was not liking the sound of any of this one bit and, quite frankly, he was afraid to know the details of said games. “Why did he test those people? What was so special about them?”

“They were… he had his reasons,” she settled on though Quentin suspected there was more to it than that. “The game acted as a rebirth: survive, and you were reborn into the world anew.”

“You sound skeptical,” he pointed out.

“I believed in John’s teachings for awhile, his faith in the redeemability of man. It helped that I experienced a game of his for myself,” Amanda revealed much to Quentin’s shock.

“You were tested?”

“And I passed,” she casually answered. “So did a few others, from their own games, but...”

“But… you don’t believe… because you didn’t change?” he threw out with uncertainty. If she had survived her test and did not stay true to her belief, then she must have witnessed the futility of her mentor’s tests—either from watching others relapse or through her own actions.

“Quentin.”

Quentin snapped his head towards the call to see Philip, Anna, Evan, and Lisa walking towards them.

“Uh, yeah?” he asked and then promptly coughed and sneezed at the same time. He was starting to feel nauseous too… how annoying.

“You may rest now,” Philip stated as he towered over him and Amanda. “Frederick will not bother you again for some time.”

“Oh... umm, thank you,” he expressed though his tone was slightly dejected for some odd reason, “but m’not really tired—”

“Alright mop top,” Amanda uttered while effortlessly heaving him off the ground and back onto the bed, “bedtime.”

“Hey! M’not a toddler, or a sack of potatoes! Besides I’m feeling a lot better so—” A series of jarring coughs halted his lies dead in their tracks.

“Boy sleep!” Anna shouted while waving a sharpened hatchet in his general direction.

Quentin unintentionally whined and weakly protested by saying, “But—”

“Don’t worry,” Amanda reassured with tucking him under the furs, “we’re not going anywhere.”

Knowing he was likely outnumbered and his attempts to persuade Anna—of practically anything and everything—in the past ended in failure, Quentin snarled out a curt, “Fine.”

“Sweet dreams,” Amanda expressed with a shit-eating grin.

“I hate you,” he bluntly declared with a half-hearted glare.

“Funny,” she spoke with a pleasant smile, “I kinda like you.”

She was certainly a strange one and, despite her unsettling shifts between friendly and foreboding moods, he was interested in continuing their conversation. He wanted to know more about how Amanda became a killer, how all of the monst—how all of the people here became killers. Maybe then he might understand how and why they were chosen to hunt for the Entity in this world.

Until then, he diverted his gaze back to Amanda and quipped, “You gonna give me my beanie back?”

She gave him another evil smirk, leaned in to affectionately poke his nose and then said, “Eventually.”

“Drink first,” Lisa piped up, her voice startling a random sneeze out of him. How he had not melted into a pile of goo from sheer embarrassment was beyond his comprehension.

Quentin reluctantly downed the tankard of leafy-barky-dirty water presented to him, endured a boisterous laugh from Evan, and then proceeded to get comfy on the bed again. Anna remained close by his bedside and started to hum her usual lullaby again, the tune already causing his eyelids to droop.

He conceded that, while killers were killers by definition, it did not stop them from acting like insufferable mother hens. Although, as he had deduced before, there was infinitely more to these killers than what was seen on the outside. And he was determined to learn more about them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I portrayed Amanda well enough since I disliked the idea of writing her as a mindless killer—or ‘meat’ slayer as her backstory subtly puts it.


	5. Storytime

Numerous trials had passed to the point where Quentin had stopped trying to keep track of the specific count. Despite receiving pleasant treatment from the majority of the killer population, which included their help in nursing him back to health, he yearned to see his friends again. Every fond memory of them was continuously blurring the longer he was apart from them: Feng cockily boasting after defeating Ace in a card match only for the gambler to silence her with an impish kiss planted on her cheek; Bill scolding everyone for their recklessness in a stern, grandfatherly manner; Claudette and Jake contentedly culling medicinal herbs while sharing their respective knowledge of botany with each other; Nea causing mischief in their homely forest by carving crude tags on trees; Meg sprinting laps around Dwight and then congratulating their winded leader afterwards on running slightly faster than the previous time; Laurie silently crying in both pain and relief upon divulging her troubling past to the group; and David bringing everyone together, making them feel not so dead, with his many drunken tales and boisterous energy.

Their vibrant smiles, which occasionally radiated more warmth than the campfire, their infectious laughter, which lightened the normally dreary mood, and their burning passionate to defy expectations and survive. These three aspects were the only solid, persisting memories he had left of his fellow survivors. It was almost depressing to think about yet he continued to hope, prayed whenever possible for their safety and happiness even at the expense of his own. Not that he was terribly unhappy here since the killers were actually quite enjoyable to hang around, but the difference was hugely noticeable. Being in the company of armed individuals, who possessed monstrous strength to boot, was not the safest environment—in comparison to the survivor area anyway—to reside within. He was not even allowed to wander off anywhere without someone to escort him or stalk him from afar.

Speaking of stalking, Quentin subtly glanced sideways where his eye spied out a sliver of white tucked away behind a nearby tree. Though extremely cuddly when he fell ill, Michael seemed to prefer watching him from the shadows nowadays. On occasion, the boogeyman had stepped out from whatever hiding place to comfort him, when the weight of his predicament reared its ugly head and his future appeared too bleak and hopeless. He valued those wholesome moments.

“Quentin.”

Neck snapping towards his name, Quentin spotted Evan and Philip emerging from behind a cluster of bushes, their respective weapons lightly shimmering in the poor lighting. “Yeah?”

“Would you please follow us?” Philip politely asked.

“There’s something important we need to discuss with you,” Evan added, his tone less serene than his fellow killer.

He offered the killers a delayed, shaky nod before proceeding to follow them elsewhere, presumably back to Aura. Aura, as Quentin had affectionately dubbed it, referred to the small clearing—abundant with fluorescent plants, various stumps and wooden furnishing—he was been introduced to after Max had sawed Freddy in half awhile back. The name itself suited the tranquil, soft atmosphere surrounding the vicinity, and it was a place he came to recognize and accept as his secondary home away from the survivor campground.

Though nervousness surged through his system and threatened to hamper his stride, he kept pace with Philip and Evan. Every now and then the killers approached him for miscellaneous conversation or to see if he was interested in joining them for an activity or two. Quentin grinned at the memory of hitting his first tree with a hatchet: Anna had been impatient with his lack of progress until she had physically stepped in to correct his stance and guide his arm. She had been immensely elated when his hatchet finally hit its mark, her pleased smile reminding him of a proud parent. This instance did not resemble the other times beforehand; Evan and Philip were too hush-hush about whatever important matter they wished to discuss with him.

Entering Aura, Quentin noted that every killer—minus Freddy and Herman—was present and appeared to be awaiting their arrival. The Cannibal, Bubba, like Michael, was hovering in the shadows as the shy killer rarely revealed himself when Quentin was around. His only interaction with Bubba had been the cautious hand wave he greeted the killer with from afar which, somehow, had Bubba fleeing immediately. He understood introversion well enough given that he was classified as such, but The Cannibal defined his own little subsection under the category.

Looking inquisitively at each killer, Quentin mumbled out an anxious, “Uhm… what’s going on?”

“Please,” Philip implored after sitting on a random stump whilst gesturing to the bed nearby, “sit.”

Complying again with the request, he sat on the bed—his bed technically at this point—next to Amanda and waited for an explanation.

“We wanna know more about you and Freddy,” Amanda bluntly stated after removing her stuffy headpiece and setting it to the side.

“We have heard whispers, vague snippets of information,” Philip said, “but we wish to gain a better understanding of your relationship with Frederick.”

Now that was a peculiar topic to inquire about and especially after how much time had passed. “Why?”

Evan straightened up in his chair, which hardly looked as though it could support his bulky weight, to gravely voice, “No man hunts a child—”

“I’m not a child.”

“—this persistently without some sort of provocation.”

“Listen,” Lisa rasped out, her tone somehow conveying softness underneath its ordinary hoarseness, “we will still protect you while you’re here.”

“We just wanna understand his obsession witcha,” Max included onto the end of The Hag’s sentence.

“Boy share story,” Anna chimed in, “then boy less scared.”

Ignoring the semi-insulting ‘scared’ comment, Quentin bored his gaze into each individual killer and said, “You’re curious about me and Freddy? You wanna understand? Well… I’d like some answers first.”

Philip offered him a perplexed frown before uttering, “About?”

“All of you,” he clarified, his hands addressing each killer around their imperfect circle. “What you did to end up here… as killers.” Much to his relief and delight, a series of agreeable nods and hums were quick to follow.

“Very well,” The Wraith answered for the others in attendance. “If we share our stories with you, will you share yours?”

“Yes.” He was uncomfortable with divulging such personal information but gaining similar in return was worth the sacrifice. Lying, or withholding parts of the truth, was an option though the idea of doing so left a funny taste in his mouth. Quentin hoped that his naïve trust was not going to blow up in his face.

“Hope you’re cozy,” Max mentioned in the form of a warning, “‘cause this’ll take awhile.”

Evan was the first member of their little gathering to share his story. Quentin listened intently as The Trapper fondly recalled his close, idolizing relationship with his father—Archie MacMillan—or, rather, the iron fist Archie possessed while running the mining operations of the MacMillan Estate. As such, Evan, no matter the demand, would do whatever his father commanded of him even as Archie slowly succumbed to mental deterioration. Apparently Evan initially acted out of respect and to protect the man that he adored from a young age; however, his actions eventually took a dark turn the moment Archie lost his sanity—his rational tether to the world. Despite knowing this, The Trapper continued to carry out his father’s orders which included luring over a hundred men into the mining tunnels and sealing them within its inescapable depths. It was the final command he dutifully completed before the Entity stole him away.

“You idolized your father that much,” Quentin shockingly voiced, “th-that you’d actually… kill for him?”

Evan answered his inquiry with a firm nod, one which clearly highlighted the level of respect and admiration he held for Archie MacMillan. Quentin was quite baffled to say the least but he, more than most, understood the power a special bond possessed over people. Even still, he felt rather ill of hearing that those men had suffered _and_ died in those accursed tunnels—their eternal tomb as it were. He was nauseated with the mere thought of what those men might have resorted to in order to survive in the mines.

Quentin fixed Evan with a nasty leer whilst he snappily uttered, “What is worth it? Was your father _happy_ with you?”

The Trapper diverted his gaze to the ground when he muttered, “I believe I will never know for certain.”

“You don’t know?” Quentin confusedly remarked, his eyes searching for the pair hidden beneath a jagged, dirty mask. “So, the Entity took you before you… before he… is he dead?”

“Without my care and without anyone else to take my place as his provider, yes.”

“He…” Quentin grasped at his cross pendant and contemplated telling The Trapper how _not_ sorry he was, how Archie MacMillan wholly deserved to suffer a similar fate as those men trapped in the tunnels. Yet, near the end at least, the fault rested not on the father but on the son. Evan had the opportunity to refuse Archie, to single-handedly run the family business while still providing for his father without harming anyone. Instead, The Trapper chose to serve the only individual who defined his existence, who gave his life true meaning and purpose. Quentin had a difficult time accepting such heinous acts but he managed to vocalize a moderately sympathetic, “I’m sorry.”

The lack of questioning from the other killers suggested that they already knew each other’s stories. It was understandable though he wondered how awkward or boring it must be to hear the same thing again.

Quentin was grateful when Philip took the initiative to express his story next prior to allowing the tension to escalate towards a danger zone. Admittedly The Wraith had a shorter tale to tell in comparison to Evan though the gritty details were equally unpleasant. Philip acquired a new beginning in the form of a hopeful job at Autohaven Wreckers, a small-scale scrapyard business which occasionally engaged in the odd shady deal or two. Not one to involve himself in the criminal side of the business, Philip simply manned the vehicle crusher and repaired whatever cars were salvageable. He enjoyed his tasks, which Philip claimed were almost relaxing, until his eyes were opened to an ugly truth. His discovery of a young man trapped in a trunk of a car awaiting to be crushed was but the start. When his boss had revealed the honest front of the business, that nearly every car he had compacted into beautiful cubes contained people, Philip had thrown the other into the crusher and watched his former boss perish. No sooner after collecting the skull and spine of his slimy excuse of a boss did the Entity whisk him away.

“You had no idea that you were killing people?” At Philip’s dejected nod, Quentin then asked, “What ‘bout their screams or the clunking noises from the trunk?”

“Not while bound and gagged, and the sound of the compactor would have surely drowned out any cries for help. I heard nothing,” The Wraith sorrowfully spoke, “and saw nothing until it was much too late.”

“But… if you knew there was ‘shady’ stuff going on, why work there in the first place?”

“I was no stranger to such activity and the job, though meager, was a beacon of hope in a country where I saw none before it,” Philip confessed, the raw emotion in his voice giving Quentin pause. “So long as I did not partake, I was content in turning a blind eye to it.”

“So you were ignorant?” he uttered in disbelief. “You didn’t care at _all?_”

Quentin initially wished to argue that Philip had been a victim along with the countless people he had unknowingly crushed. However, after hearing of how easy it was for the killer to ignore the shadiness of the business, his opinion of the other male had changed. He strongly believed that Philip had a responsibility to care, as a human being, but maybe The Wraith had been too desensitized to such things to actually care. Besides, his job at the scrapyard had been some sort of a blessing, something that apparently provided Philip with the hope he needed to press onward.

“Perhaps not as greatly as I should have,” the bell-wielding killer remorsefully expressed, his gentle words slightly calming Quentin.

Possibly seeing an opportunity, or looking to shift the tension like before, Max decided that it was his turn to tell his story. The Hillbilly, by far, possessed the most saddening tale Quentin had ever heard given how the killer had essentially lived alone in the world. Born disfigured, his so-called parents, ashamed and cruel, sealed him away in a small room with only a tiny hole for food as his window to the outside world. Max had positively relished in the foreign feeling of pure joy when he escaped his prison and brutally murdered his heartless wardens. His unstable violence after his revenge was exacted, however, remained and was utilized on innocent animals as Max continued to live at the farm until The Entity snatched him up.

“M’really sorry Max,” he genuinely professed. “You didn’t what your par—_those monsters_ did to you. I really don’t understand how they could be so cruel, but why not leave the farm? Start over?”

“M’not exactly normal lookin’,” The Hillbilly pointedly spoke as if he were educating a blind or foolish person, “and my head wasn’t screwed on right at the time neither. I only saw red when I ran through the fields and I doubted if I coulda stopped seein’ it. The hate, it… it burned and, well, it was best for everyone that I stayed put.”

“I guess so,” Quentin weakly concurred, “but wasn’t it like trading one cage for another?”

“Kinda, but it was a bigger cage,” Max cheerfully clarified, “one more my size and with no wardens.”

A shrill shriek drew his attention to Sally who was currently pointing at the ground in front of her seat. Apparently whilst the other three killers were sharing their stories, The Nurse had been scrawling her own story into the loose dirt. Philip elected to read her written words and Quentin soon found that her tale rivalled the one Max had just finished. According to her description, Sally had big dreams of starting a family with her beloved husband, Andrew, only for the man to die before those dreams were fulfilled. Desperate for cash and without any better options, she took a job at the Crotus Prenn Asylum as a nurse. The place was not an ideal establishment to work for and, eventually, the insanity found within claimed what little sanity Sally had left. She, with her mind fractured into millions of teensy pieces, killed several patients, as well as a few staff members, by strangling them to death with her bare hands. The Entity, perhaps intentionally, captured Sally only after she had snuffed out the lives of several medical personnel on route to the nearest hospital via ambulance.

“Geez, are you… how bad _was_ this asylum?” Quentin finally settled for, his reaction causing Sally to release a depressed sounding croak. The Nurse then hovered close to the ground and scribbled the words, ‘worse than you could imagine’, into the soil. His imagination was certainly running wild with possibilities, none of which were remotely pleasant to visualize.

“Did you know what you were doing?” he questioned next while simultaneously fearing the answer. “Were you, y’know, _aware_ that you were killing people?”

Sally shook her head in affirmation, the slowness of the gesture likely signalling how torn up inside she was with herself for committing such crimes. Quentin had belatedly noticed a pattern developing too: though arguably not fully sane in the real world, the killers regained some semblance of their humanity here—however ironic that was. How was that possible if they were required to kill for the Entity?

Although, not _all_ of the killers, namely Freddy, were capable of expressing kindness or regret. The memory of his fever-induced dream quickly resurfaced, a semi-hazy memory where his worst nightmare did indeed show him compassion though he bitterly willed the stupid thing to die off in the back corners of his mind. Freddy had shown restraint only because he was sick and unentertaining to toy with in such a state. It definitely was _not_ done out of the goodness of the bastard’s cold heart.

“My turn.”

A hackly feminine voice pierced through his sullen thoughts and diverted his field of vision to Lisa. When everyone appeared to be listening, The Hag started to regale her story. Quentin had to physically prevent himself from vomiting when Lisa spoke of the horrors she endured. The Hag explained that she had grown up in an isolated and tranquil village where she learned a great many things from her elders—including the unique symbols she drew in trials. One dark and stormy night was all it took for her to be robbed of her freedom and locked away from her cherished home. Her kidnappers were apparently cannibals who feed off of their prisoners until they expired. Unlike the other captives, however, Lisa lasted through numerous weeks of torture. Though she eventually managed to free herself from her shackles, she was too weak from infection and starvation to escape from her kidnappers. With her life ebbing away, Lisa drew the symbols taught by her elders into the floor which, instead of bringing her safety or good fortune, fuelled her enraged vengeance. Once her kidnappers died, the Entity swooped in and took her away.

“They were cannibals… they were eating you?” Quentin hesitantly voiced. “Fuck, god I… w-what happened?”

Giving him a completely serious stare, The Hag evenly said, “I ate them.”

With that tidbit of information, Quentin immediately doubled over and puked into the grass. A gentle palm patted at his back—likely from Amanda—whilst acidic bile burned his esophagus and left a funky aftertaste on his tongue. Spitting out the last remnants of disgusting bile from his mouth, he locked gazed with Lisa—who looked entirely unfazed by his puking—and incredulously asked, “Why would you do that?”

“Revenge.”

“Yeah, I got that part, but you… that was…” He was going to say disgusting or wrong, but what slipped from his lips was neither word. “That’s stooping to their level.”

“They took away my life, kept me from my people,” Lisa heatedly declared, her voice sounding defensive, “and I wanted them to _feel_ exactly how much that hurt. And I was so hungry…”

Quentin swiftly slapped a hand over his mouth to keep a second round of vomit at bay, his orbs gawking at the puddle of puke soaking into the rich soil beneath his hunched figure. Hunger was never an issue for him so it was difficult to imagine what weeks worth of starvation must feel like. Desperation, too, made people do crazy or unthinkable things which he himself had experienced when downing ungodly amounts of Red Bull and Zoneral to avoid sleeping. Still, even if those cannibalistic fuckers had deserved it, was eating them _really_ necessary to drive the agonizing message across? Although, Lisa did eat bits and pieces of them during trials so either she developed an unhealthy craving for flesh or she adopted some grotesque eating habits from her captors. He was sympathetic, all things considered, but it was no less disgusting.

“I kinda understand, but I don’t think I could ever stomach…” In an effort to change the subject, he cautiously asked, “What about Michael and, uh, Bubba? Their stories?”

“Michael has yet to share his story with us… or write it I suppose,” Evan added in afterthought.

“Bubba’s not much of a people per—”

“Shy man,” Anna threw out, her straightforward description earning some head nods.

“Yeah, that,” Max asserted prior to resuming his explanation with, “but he’ll ‘ventually warm up to us.”

“And… Herman?”

“His story is best left unspoken.” A curious eyebrow raised at the response though Quentin decided against pressing for further information. If they were that fast to shoot his question down, then obviously the answer must be super bad. “Anna?” Philip called out. “Would you like to share next?”

Quelling his nausea, Quentin readjusted his feet such that they were not resting in the puddle of puke and then trained his sights on The Huntress. Anna, ever the strong woman, actually displayed a surprising level of softness when discussing her mother. Supposedly, her mother had raised Anna on her own, with love and lullabies, in a forest dwelling and taught her daughter how to survive in tough conditions. During one particularly harsh winter, an elk fatally impaled its antlers into Anna’s mother which left the young huntress to fend for herself. With her survival training, Anna survived into adulthood where she became a dangerous, nearly inhuman, predator akin to the ones inhabiting the forest alongside her. She hunted throughout her territory, which included unwary travellers, and protected her home although, after coming across little girls, Anna eventually yearned for a child of her own. The girls that she stumbled upon, or kidnapped from nearby villages, all died one way or another which drove The Huntress mad with desire to continue trying; fortunately, the war and then the Entity finally put a stop to her rampage.

“Your lullaby, the one you hum all the time,” Quentin included to explain his point, “that was from your mother?” After watching Anna cheerily nod, he went on to ask, “Why take the little girls? Why not boys too? Or why not meet someone and start a fam—”

“Wanted girl,” The Huntress aggressively insisted. “Not boy, not man, only girl.”

“So… like mother like daughter? Carry on the, uhm, tradition your mother had with you?” When Anna threw out anther delighted nod, he uttered an angry, “But you shouldn’t have taken those girls from their families, from their mothers. Just because you killed their parents doesn’t make you their new parent.”

“Why?”

“Because you couldn’t replace their mother,” Quentin all but snapped at her clueless reply. “Just like no other woman could replace _your_ mother.”

“Hmm, no replace…” The Huntress then appeared to retreat into her mind, the contemplative curl of her lips being the sole indication of her processing his words. Quentin hoped that he had enlightened Anna on the perspective of the little girls, what they surely felt at the hands of their menacing looking captor.

“You’ve already heard my story,” Amanda piped up when the eerie silence stretched on, her calm orbs shifting about to properly lock gazes with Quentin. “I was a junkie spiralling out of control before John tested me and named me as his apprentice and eventual successor… but I left out one important piece.”

Trying to read past her neutral expression, he emitted a nervous, “Which was?”

“I helped John collect his test subjects and to create some of his games, a few using my own designs. But, unlike John, I didn’t give those tested a chance to survive,” she steadily revealed, her eyes never straying from his. “I rigged the games so that they died no matter what.”

“What? Why?”

“You know why. I didn’t change after passing John’s test,” Amanda informed him which confirmed his previous assumptions, “and if I didn’t then there’d be others who wouldn’t either. They’d eventually go back to doing what they did before being tested—”

“You didn’t even give them a chance!” he appallingly exclaimed. “You just assumed that because you failed that they’d fail too. There had to be _some_ that passed these tests and were actually ‘reborn’ again.”

She tiredly sighed prior to supplying him with a lackluster sounding, “Very few.”

What the hell was he supposed to do with that answer? He pondered and pondered until his brain throbbed in agony from the slew of information flowing through each far corner and every dark crevice that existed within his head.

“I learned my lesson though when I bit the bullet,” Amanda resumed, her tone taking on a humorous note which did nothing to actually encourage laughter.

“Do you regret it?” Quentin eventually inquired specifically to Amanda before addressing the rest of the killers present. “Do any of you regret what you did?”

“My regret came after waking up in this place. I don’t regret that those tested died,” Amanda flatly admitted, “but I do regret not giving them a chance like John did for me. Heh… John gave me too many chances when he really shouldn’t have.”

“I don’t regret killin’ my wardens,” Max firmly declared, “but I regret hunting down the animals. They weren’t afraid of me until I killed them.”

“Sally admits that she feels immense remorse over the souls she has taken,” Philip helpfully vocalized for The Nurse, “and I regret executing the souls trapped within those trunks.”

“I will never regret my curse upon those savages,” Lisa adamantly spoke, her normally rough voice coming out oddly clear when voicing it. “They were more than deserving of it.”

“I harbour the faintest of regret for the men I sealed within the mines,” Evan asserted, his tone losing its intimidating edge for a mere second, “but none of the other vultures that had prowled after the wealth my father held. His life mattered most to me, not theirs.”

“Sad for girls… and villagers,” Anna tentatively confessed after a spell, “but not trespassers.”

In spite of hearing those responses, Quentin remained conflicted due to his mixed feelings towards their stories. Some were better received in his eyes, like with Sally and Max, as opposed to the more sickening ones, like with Lisa and Evan. In order to silence his blizzardy thoughts, he took a moment to reflect each narrative with careful scrutiny.

Evan, though seemingly brutal, merely did what he believed was right. Quentin might argue that The Trapper was blindly wielding the iron will his father possessed when Archie was not longer capable of exerting it. Although, Evan sounded to be completely sane whilst following those orders and acted not out of malice but of obedience. Was that condemnable? Surely those hundred or so men would say yes though he was skeptical since Evan, lost in his own emotions, had succeeded in his goal to protect his father who was not _truly_ evil.

Philip had been a victim of circumstance yet The Wraith was not oblivious to the criminal activity the business was engaged in. Sadly, it sounded as though that little scrapyard job was the only one Philip was able to acquire. Lacking it, Quentin had to wonder what the killer would have done otherwise, how low Philip might have sunk without his shred of hope. Either way, he strongly believed that The Wraith should have known that something was amiss sooner, that his acceptance into the scrapyard meant his potential inclusion in the illegal activity going on. At least Philip felt remorse for the lives he condemned to the vehicle crusher.

Not counting all the animals he had slain, as Anna had likely killed dozens more, Max only killed his parents. Of course ‘parents’ was a generous term to call the monsters that imprisoned him without giving him even the tiniest sliver of love and affection. Perhaps if those uncompassionate assholes had experienced life isolated behind a bricked-up wall, then their attitude might have changed a touch. Max could have had a decent life beyond that room, beyond the farm. Given his appearance, it might have been difficult but at least the opportunity was free for him to choose.

Sally, similar to Archie with his decreased mental function, was not wholly responsible for the lives she took. She had witnessed unfathomable horrors in that asylum and those patients likely escalated her psychological burden. Quentin was content to blame said patients and that awful asylum but, ultimately, Sally drew the shortest end of the figurative straw of happiness. She deserved better, to live a peaceful life alongside her husband and their planned children. Life though, as Quentin unfortunately knew, did not work out nicely for everyone.

Lisa was tricky to judge given how she had been the innocent victim: she had not given those men any plausible reason to target her nor hold her hostage from her village. The way she accomplished her vengeance was where his opinion was torn since she, in lieu of simply killing her jailors like Max, had given her captors a taste of their own personal poison. Was he any better though? If given the chance, Quentin was certain that he would torture Freddy for all the pain and suffering the sicko had caused him. It was what he believed the dream demon deserved which ran parallel with Lisa and her beliefs regarding her cannibalistic kidnappers. However, while not above getting revenge, he was not going to molest Freddy. Doing something so nauseating crossed a line though cutting off the bastard’s grabby hands was not out of the question.

After losing the companionship of her mother, Anna had lost a piece of her humanity as well. Her desperate desire to have a child of her own was not wholly deplorable though her methods of going about it undoubtably were. Kidnapping those little girls, especially after slaughtering their families, was not the right answer. Maybe Anna could have adopted a child although, given her minimal interaction with society, such an option probably was impossible since any adoption agency might be skeptical of granting her a child to raise. Additionally, meeting someone seemed out of the question too as her mother had clearly taught Anna not to trust others. It was honestly really sad.

His neutral opinion of Amanda had somewhat lessened after listening to her whole story. In all fairness, she had learned her lesson—as she herself had claimed—but it did not seem solid enough. Perhaps Amanda was hiding her true emotions underneath her mask of sarcasm and wit. Quentin recalled quite a few of his survivor friends expressing similar behaviour which greater fortified his theory. That being said, she still took lives and therefore, by her own admission, she was irredeemable yet he believed otherwise. Her redemption, and potentially for some of the other killers, was very possible even whilst living in this deplorable hellscape. His acceptance for those so-called games, which essentially acted as the ultimate reform programs for those unlucky enough to be chosen, was lacking.

“Quentin?”

“Huh?”

Waving a hatchet in his general direction, Anna barked out, “Boy share now.”

“R-Right, uh, okay,” Quentin stuttered out while wondering how many hatchets The Huntress had at her disposal. “Umm, I dunno what Freddy has told—”

“Start from the beginning please,” Philip gently encouraged.

Exhaling a nervous breath, Quentin began to divulge his story to the attentive group of killers. He told them of his entwined history with Freddy, the seemingly innocent gardener that gave him some of his greatest and worst memories at Badham Preschool. His tale briefly glossed over the molestation bits though the pitiful tear he shed when remembering those disgusting moments did not go unnoticed. Quentin speedily switched off to his teenage years and claimed that Freddy, several years after being burned to death by their enraged parents, had returned to vengefully hunt down all of the children from Badham. Using their dreams, Freddy toyed with them in his dreamworld prior to gruesomely killing them. When only he and Nancy were left, they decided to confront the dream demon, defeat the unstoppable monster by pulling the man from his dreamworld and ending him. Their combined efforts yielded temporary success until Freddy had came back a second time to torment him exclusively—for coming between him and his favourite girl. He barely managed to survive against the dream demon before the Entity had whisked the both of them away.

Amanda placed a tender hand on his shoulder, her eyes displaying subtle sympathy though her following statement was keenly piercing. “You called him a rapist before.”

“Yeah,” he quietly confirmed, his orbs tactically downcast, “I did.” The second those three words exited his mouth was when a body slammed into his torso and enveloped him in a constricting embrace. “An-Anna,” Quentin narrowly wheezed out when the culprit became clear, “t-too tight…”

The Huntress moderately loosened her grip on him yet refused to let go entirely. Such close, intimate contact had his bottom lip minutely trembling before his arms surged forwards and tears clouded his vision. He internally scolded himself for looking weak in front of the others but his damnable body denied him his stubborn willpower to compose himself.

“Thanks Quentin,” he heard Max softly utter close by.

“We appreciate you telling us this,” Lisa expressed while her bony hand delicately rested his forearm—likely as a comforting gesture.

“We may not be innocent,” Evan confessed, “but we certainly are not the types to condone rape. Especially of a child.”

“Freddy’s n-nothing but an undead, cow-cowardly pervert,” he uselessly sniffled out into Anna’s burly shoulder. “He-He’s not even _worth_ killing.”

He was spewing word vomit at this point, anything to distract him from his emotional agony, but thankfully he had these guys to lean on. This should scare him, him surrendering to killers dishing out hugs and soothing touches, yet it did not. Their warmth and tenderness were mildly surprising, given their rough and menacing exteriors, but nevertheless welcome.

Though they were killers, possibly irredeemable ones, these people were _not_ monsters.

Peering at his compassionate protectors, Quentin blearily caught sight of a sparkly glare in the distance. Initially he had thought the gleam to have come from Michael’s kitchen knife but his assumption was proven false when he spotted Myers in his peripheral vision and patting his beanie-clad head. Was it Bubba then? Glancing back towards the mysterious gleam, Quentin noticed that there was not one but four sparkles now glaring at him. His orbs widened substantially when the briefest, visible pop of wool red was illuminated by a cluster of mushrooms protruding from a tree.

A gloved hand, with blades ever so sharp, was coiled around the tree trunk and Quentin knew exactly whom it belonged to. Freddy had been listening the entire time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Killer lore is referenced from the official Dead By Daylight website; however, I did not include/reference the additional lore—for applicable killers—supplied by The Archives.


	6. Survivor

Triple checking that the coast was clear, Quentin stealthily slinked past a sleeping Lisa and a snoring Max into the deeper bowels of the forest. This opportunity was only possible thanks to everyone else being away: Michael was ‘performing’ in a trial; Amanda was fleeing from a persistent Anna wanting to braid her hair; and the others were working on an ongoing project of sorts—its exact nature unknown—elsewhere. In regards to the latter, their secrecy was possibly due to the killers, though open about their backstories, not wholly trusting him yet. Frankly the feeling was mutual but at least there now was a level of comfortable understanding between him and the friendlier killers. They were gradually growing on him, and with growth came the occasional irritation with their constant presence near him.

Alone time, or whatever equated to such, for him was essentially non-existent here unlike during trials or in the survivor forest. With Freddy and Herman skulking about, and with that prior incident between Michael and Herman, the killers took no further chances with his safety. As such, no matter what he did, he always had one or multiple ‘bodyguards’ monitoring his whereabouts. The effort was greatly appreciated yet his inner introvert screamed for a moment of peacefully quiet solitude.

Hence, armed with one of Anna’s hatchets, which he absolutely did not steal from under her nose, Quentin commenced his leisurely stroll through the forest. The area was relatively similar to the woods surrounding the survivor campground save for the extra abundance of fluorescent plants and several stumps. Although, with concerns to the former, he and his fellow survivors had a habit of culling most of the plants for tinctures and salves. Their precious resource eventually grew back, albeit slowly, though sometimes not in the same place. Maybe the Entity spawned them randomly but, evidently, replanting was the best way to preserve a larger supply for longer.

In spite of the alluring sights and the sweet sound of the earth crunching underneath his shoes, his temporary feeling of freedom included the tedious task of constantly scanning his surroundings for threats. A handful of those threats consisted of beartraps and hex traps, most of which were easily avoided thanks to his extensive practice during trials.

Thinking of other potential dangers, Freddy had yet to make another appearance after spying on his heart-to-heart, so to speak, with the other killers. Quentin was curious about what the bastard had heard and, more importantly, how often the dream demon had been stalking him. Given how routinely his protectors murdered his obsessive killer, he could only guesstimate the amount of anger Freddy now harboured towards him. How long would it be before that rage was channeled into deadly action?

A mild, nervous shiver ran through his body as his imagination cycled through the worst of scenarios whilst his orbs searched for any distinctive metallic gleams. Was his anxiety worth indulging this time around? Perhaps, but his curiosity and desire for alone time was presently overruling his trepidation which, ultimately, felt like an achievement in his book. Fear often ruined a great many of his experiences so it was refreshing to have a moment without the feeling stressing him out.

Whilst distracted by his internal rambling, he had unknowingly stumbled upon a quaint clearing equipped with a little pond. This particular body of water stood on record as the smallest he had ever seen here, the size equivalent to something he might see in a residential backyard to spruce up the space. Mesmerized by its rarity, Quentin crouched near the shoreline to gaze into the liquid pool. He almost hoped to see tiny fish swimming around in it but then retracted his wish for no creature deserved to be trapped in such a teeny cage.

Clearly the Entity liked cages, in the form of small realms or its world as a whole, but every cage had to have an exit, right? Or was there really no means of escaping their seemingly, never-ending cycle of agony and death? Technically, by no longer getting summoned to trials, he had partially cheated the system which had to count for something. Now all he needed to worry about, hopefully, were two killers and possibly contracting a nastier flu.

Quentin dipped his fingertips into the pond and swirled them around a bit to create captivating ripples. Smiling contentedly at the pleasantly cool sensation prickling at his digits, his happiness was abruptly ripped away when something yanked him onto his back.

A solid pressure immediately plastered on top of his body, stopping him from lurching upright, before a gleeful voice whispered, “You really shouldn’t wander off by yourself. What would your new _friends_ think?”

Glaring at the ugly sneer filling the majority of his field of vision, Quentin struggled against Freddy, his legs scraping against the dirt while his fingernails attempted to claw out the killer’s eyes. Given how much weight was crushing him into the dirt, it was impossible to free the hatchet strapped between his jeans and belt. The stupid thing was also digging painfully into his lower back which was ironic since it was initially brought along to prevent injury.

Knowing a desperate situation when he saw one, Quentin swallowed his pride and yelled, “HEL—”

A leathery palm instantly clamped over his mouth prior to the dream demon playful chiding, “Ah, ah, ah. I wouldn’t do that… you never know who’s listening.” Translation: either Herman was close by or Freddy was bluffing out of his twisted ass. “And you wouldn’t want the others spoiling our playtime too soon.”

Shoving the revolting hand off of his face, Quentin hissed out an impatient, “Get offa me.”

Freddy sighed, the noise sounding disgustingly soft, and then claimed, “You were better behaved when you were sick.”

“Th-That was because of the fever,” he barely managed to say, his cheeks flushing with undesired heat, “not ‘cause I was ‘better behaved’. I didn’t want _your_ help—”

“But you were happy with their help?”

“I trust them a helluva lot more than I trust you,” Quentin adamantly barked out, his limbs subtly shifting about to assess how trapped he was. If there were any points of weakness to be found, then he was going to exploit them—barring any other setbacks.

“Is that so?” Freddy thoughtfully murmured, his displeased expression surprisingly difficult to gawk at. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

“Fuck you.”

A single claw swiftly appeared in front of his nose, the metallic tip curling downward to lightly tap against his lip before slowly trailing to the side to cut a thin line into his left cheek. “They tell you a few sob stories and you’re putty in their hands.”

Ignoring his stinging flesh wound, he continued to glower at his eternal nemesis as he voiced a determined, “They weren’t lying.”

Freddy promptly laughed at that, the hysterical nature of his amusement earning the bastard a glob of saliva spat in his face. Unperturbed by his assault, the dream demon ceased his cackling to wipe the goo off of his nose prior to emitting a quietly indulgent, “So naïve, even now. It’s what I love most ‘bout you Quen. Well… maybe the second thing,” Freddy amended whilst gently rocking his hips into Quentin.

“M’not naïve,” he asserted, his fruitless struggles renewing against the dream demon, “and I know bullshit when I hear it.”

“No, you don’t. But what would I know? I’m just an ‘undead, cowardly pervert’ to you,” the killer quoted with perfection.

Quentin revelled in the offended tone Freddy utilized as he voiced a smug, “Exactly.”

“You ungrateful lit—I _loved_ you kids!”

“Oh yeah, sure,” he sarcastically agreed, “you _loved_ us to the point that it hurt. You have no fucking idea what love is.”

“And you do? Daddy certainly didn’t love you, not like I did,” the dream demon professed, his claw drawing another thin line in his cheek. “Nancy never loved you either.”

“Whatever. She’s safe from you,” Quentin countered whilst simultaneously dodging the comment. “That’s all that matters.”

“For now,” Freddy insisted, his serious expression switching out for one of tender fondness which had Quentin internally cringing at the scary sight. “Nancy was always my favourite: her pretty smile and sparkly eyes, the scent of her beautiful hair, the cute squeaks she made when I massaged her folds—”

His disturbing mental imagery coupled with that nauseating admission had Quentin abruptly upchucking, his burning bile splattering on the loose soil beside his head. The last thing he wanted to know, or visualize, was Freddy doing _that_ to Nancy. He knew it had happened of course given the lewd photographs, which he should have never allowed Nancy to see, the sicko stored in the secret cave. Why could they not experience an uneventful childhood like other kids? Though not inspiring the most thrilling of Kodak moments, such an upbringing would have been preferable to the molestation and abuse they had endured.

“She was always such a good girl,” he heard Freddy resume, the killer orienting his attention away from his puddle of bile. Once wholly facing the dream demon, the older brushed a claw sensually along his bottom lip to remove the residual puke lingering there. The blade was quick to slice into his plump skin, the cut shallow yet managing to elicit a faint whimper from him. “You were a good boy then too. A little distracted at times,” Freddy happily recalled with a toothy smile, “but always willing to spend time with me. So eager to please, doing anything to keep my attention.”

“Shut up—”

“Now you want everyone else’s attention too. And, being my special boy that I kn—”

“I’m _not_ yours,” he lowly affirmed, his powerful gaze piercing holes in the monster above him.

Freddy emitted yet another chuckle prior to noddingly stating, “Yes, you are… you just need a little remainder.”

When a hand started fiddling with his belt, Quentin shifted into full gear, his hips regrettably raising into a second pair to properly dislodge the hatchet smooshed underneath his backside. Finally pulling the damnable thing loose, he tightened his grip on the handle and thrusted the sharp edge into Freddy’s exposed neck. Next, he shimmied out from beneath the shell-shocked killer to swiftly rip the hatchet clean, the resulting wet squelch and river of black blood satisfying his sense of justice.

Winding his arm back to take a second swing, the dream demon abruptly struck back, those dangerous claws slashing through his jeans and faintly grazing his left shin. Quentin tanked the paltry slice and committed to his intended attack, the upper edge of the hatchet burying into Freddy’s left bicep. A lightning fast slash to the left side of his face knocked him off of his feet and onto his stomach before he was able to retrieve his weapon. Spending by a mere moment wordlessly screaming from the ungodly pain afflicting his injured eye, he attempted to move only to be forcibly kicked over onto his backside. Freddy, enraged beyond reasoning with, then straddled him again and proceeded to choke the life from him.

The dream demon affectionately shushed Quentin, the noise sickeningly sweet and unmatching of his outward demeanor, and then said, “Your lapdogs would be disappointed if you missed your nap.”

Quentin clawed at the obstruction coiled around his windpipe whilst he uselessly gasped for air. His sneakers scraped desperate lines in the dirt as his orbs, the injured one hurting greater still, budded with tears. Blood from Freddy’s neck wound dribbled onto his face as spots began dancing in the outermost edges of his vision, the tiny specks gradually clumping together to form a solid sheen of black. Was this how he died?

“Sweet dreams,” he blearily caught his attacker say which debunked his previous assumption about the dream demon desiring his death.

As the darkness slowly claimed the last of his sight, and his lungs matched the intense burn of his stinging eye, he drudged up what meager strength he still possessed to headbutt the bastard in the nose. A sickening crunch followed by a rush of life sustaining oxygen gave him the adrenaline he needed to boot Freddy in the chest and scramble to his feet. Feebly coughing and sputtering, he quickly grabbed the discarded hatchet, which was now reduced to a stick with one sharp end, and bolted back towards Aura.

“LISA!” Quentin recklessly shouted, his pathing slightly faltering from his lack of clear sight. “MAX!” Though Herman may be nearby, he was in too much trouble not to call for aid. Dismissing the option of killing him, all Freddy had to do was render him mute or unconscious for their ‘game’ to be uninterrupted.

Wet, raspy breaths from behind had Quentin peering over his shoulder to witness a scowling dream demon, with a palm clutched to his bleeding neck, chasing him down. Despite the arguably crippling injury he gave the older male, Freddy unfortunately showed no signs of slowing. Additionally, multiple glances back confirmed that the older was closing the distance between them, and he was not confident in his ability to single-handedly overpower the dream demon with one good eye and a broken weap—

His train of thought abruptly derailed when Quentin remembered the traps Evan and Lisa had scattered about. If he was capable of luring Freddy into one, preferably a beartrap since The Hag was not guaranteed to physically appear, then he could kill the miserable fuck for himself. He had to be careful though because the dream demon may already know of the traps if the bastard had seen their placement whilst stalking him and the others killers.

Moderately foolproof plan in mind, he advanced forward and prepared to sprint strategically through the section of traps ahead. For this to work properly, he had to be discreet about his movement and avoid tripping any traps, which included the ones Lisa drew, in case Freddy caught on prematurely. Of course, judging by the furious expression and aggressive speed the dream demon was displaying, Quentin doubted that the former condition was going to be too problematic to maintain.

Stepping into the patch of trap-infested forest, he steered away from the hex traps and bounded over a few beartraps. He began sweating bullets when his pursuer did not immediately step into one and his inkling to scream for the others grew tenfold. Did the asshole know that they were there? Freddy was getting really close now too, practically within reaching distance which caused Quentin to pick up the pace. At this rate, outrunning the bastard until he was within range of Aura was his only hope of survival.

He went to unleash another cry or two for help when the sharp snap of metal teeth and an agonized shout reached his ears. Could it be? Screeching to a violent halt, Quentin whirled around and instantly whooped at the sight of Freddy frozen in a squatted position, his mouth agape whilst his hands shakily hovered over the jaws of the trap. Before the killer had the chance to escape, which he knew the dream demon could, he speedily approached the crouched male and jammed his sharp stick against the wound on Freddy’s neck.

The killer gave him a murderous look, his miscoloured orbs glinting with both pain and the promise of inflicting pain, whilst lowly whispering, “You little shit.”

“Guess m’not as stupid as you thought,” Quentin raggedly puffed out, his triumphant smirk eliciting a growl from the other.

“I wouldn’t be so sure ‘bout th—”

“Shut up!” he demanded, his armed hand threateningly pressing the tip of the broken stick harder into the mangled flesh of the killer’s neck. “This ends now!”

Freddy released a series of laughs prior to curiously asking, “Oh, does it? What makes you think you can kill me?”

The carefree grin thrown his way was upsetting but not as much as the facetious questions the dream demon proposed. Did the sick bastard, after everything they had been through, think that he was incapable of killing him? “You think I won’t? My father did—”

“And the apple doesn’t rot far from the tree?”

“Yeah, something like that,” he admitted though the utterance of more chuckling provoked his brows into pinching together and his lip to curl in anger. “What’s so damn funny now?”

“My sweet baby boy,” Freddy muttered with gentle affection before shifting to a semi-mocking tone, “standing on his own two feet like a man. I never thought I’d see the day.” Quentin felt the weapon wrapped in his palm lightly tremble at those words. Was it rage or something else that induced such a reaction? “Well, c’mon then,” the dream demon implored with an almost knowing smirk, “_kill me_.”

Instead of lashing out at him with his claws, Freddy remained oddly still and simply awaited his next move. Quentin despised the cocky expression his worst nightmare was currently sporting and had no qualms about stabbing his pointy stick straight through it. After a brief argument between his mysteriously reluctant brain and muscles, he raised his pathetic excuse of a weapon in the air. He hesitated for several seconds afterwards, his eyes unconsciously searching for something from Freddy, prior to bringing the stick down.

His wrist was captured mid-thrust by a foreign hand, the sudden squeezing pressure nearly driving a startled yelp from him. Glancing to the side, Quentin noted that the interruption came from Evan, a ghost of a frown twisting at the bulky man’s exposed lips.

Tugging at his wrist, which The Trapper refused to release, he eventually asked, “Why?”

“Give it to me boy,” Evan firmly urged, his head gesturing to the broken hatchet.

“_WHY?!_” Quentin exasperatedly demanded, his previously unshed tears making a second appearance and hovering in the corners of his eyes.

“Because you are _not_ a killer.”

Not a killer, not a killer, not a killer. Those three little words loudly echoed throughout his brain, their implications gradually sinking in with every passing second. It was true; he was a survivor. He saved lives, mended their injuries and their hearts, and protected those dear to him even at the cost of his own life. Yet, in spite of his obvious nature, there had to be exceptions. Killing to protect others, for example, was common though the morality surrounding such an action was debatable or scrutinized.

In this situation, killing Freddy was likely to sate his thirst for revenge and nothing else. His nightmare was destined to remain for eternity, as strong and persistent as ever, where he was fated to forever fight the shadow lurking in his dreams. It was a bitterly poetic truth, one which encouraged his grip to loosen enough for Evan to pry the broken weapon from his hand.

Besides, had he not said that Freddy was unworthy of being killed before? Was that accurate?

“Isn’t this familiar,” the dream demon remarked, the comment making Evan tense, “someone else finishing what you can’t. Just like dear old dad… and my little Nancy.”

Utterly triggered by such smug slander, yet it held nothing but truth, Quentin tried to physically express his rage only for The Trapper to block his path. “Get outta my way Evan!”

“You need to leave,” the machete-wielding killer sternly stated, his unarmed hand keeping Quentin from maneuvering around him.

“No, I—”

“_Leave!_” Evan immediately boomed, his message coming out in an authoritative voice which heightened his imposing, unwavering stance.

A shrill screech reverberated through the trees before Sally, her weapon currently absent, appeared between him and The Trapper. Once she caught her breath, she gently ushered him backwards and, after a prolonged minute of glaring at Evan, he allowed it.

“_QUENTIN!_ Don’t walk away from _me!_ You know you can’t escape!” Freddy confidently bellowed, his words beginning to drive Quentin over the line of insanity. “You’ll always be m—”

The remainder of the sentence was cut off by a metallic hacking sound and a deathly wail. Shutting his eyes in irritable relief, he continued to keep pace with Sally while battling against his mounting, self-loathing thoughts. At one point, The Nurse weirdly covered his ears with her hands, the additional pressure somehow dulling the buzzing swarm inside his head. He was immensely thankful for it, and for her lack of scolding or disciplinary action for journeying into the woods alone—the latter options might still come into effect though later on.

Stepping into the beautifully decorated space that was Aura, he was briefly greeted by a stoic looking Philip before being quickly urged to sit on his bed. Gulping down a nervous lump, he complied with their unspoken request, his fear threatening to boil over until The Wraith threw a reassuring smile his way. While Sally attended to his injured eye and cheek, her touch ever so gentle, and Philip examined the minor scratches on his leg, Quentin looked up to spot Bubba tinkering with something at Max’s workbench.

“These will heal on their own time,” the sound of Philip speaking drew his attention to the bell-wielding killer, “though your clothes may require mending. His eye?” When addressed, The Nurse released a dejected sounding screech, the volume of it lower than normal. “Not as fortunate then.”

Mildly shrugging in indifference, and then promptly wincing when it aggravated his eye, Quentin said, “It’ll still heal eventually.”

“Given time, yes,” Philip concurred, an uneasy quiet setting in afterwards.

Sally continued to tend to his wounds with what supplies she had at her disposal, the process meticulous and possibly routine. Clearly her time at that awful institute passed along something of value to her even if it did come with a painful reminder of her killing spree.

“We were quite alarmed to hear of your absence,” The Wraith resumed whilst The Nurse took off his beanie to wrap a silky cloth around his head—likely to ensure that the bandage covering his left eye did not come off unexpectedly. “Lisa and Max specifically were distressed by your—”

“It wasn’t their fault,” he hastily defended. “I wasn’t tired before so I went off on my own when they were sleeping.” Any reply was put on hold as Bubba cautiously inched closer to the three of them and trembly presented to him a small, steely object. “Oh, uhm…” Quentin trailed off to eye The Cannibal suspiciously prior to extending a hand forward to accept the something-or-rather deposited into his palm. “F-For me?”

Bubba nodded while taking a few steps backwards, his posture timid despite the lack of threats present. It was hard to believe that this man was the same brutal killer, The Cannibal, he and his fellow survivors struggled to survive against, the same one that gave him the gash on his arm so long ago. Quentin theorized that Bubba performed well in trials due to his fight or flight instinct, or perhaps the Entity was too dangerous to deny pleasing. How else was he to explain The Cannibal’s overly cautious and reclusive nature?

Eyeing the tiny creation Bubba had crafted, he belatedly realized that it was meant as a third trinket for his necklace. Plus, the design was both simplistic and familiar: a teeny piece of steel, with the innermost edge sharpened, bent in the shape of a claw with a small hole in the top for winding his leather cord through. He was unsure whether to be grateful or depressed with his gift given its not-so-hidden reference; however, as he continued to flip the claw over in his palm, Quentin felt a smile blossom across his face. In some strange way, this claw was like his badge of honour for continuously surviving against Freddy.

“Thank you Bubba,” he uttered whilst showing off his grateful smile to said male. “It’s very, uhm, thoughtful, and it means a lot.” The shy killer instantly ducked his head down—possibly to reciprocate his gratitude or from being flattered—and then speedily collected his weapons and hightailed it back into the thicker parts of the forest. Was that… did he unintentionally offend the other? “Umm, I didn’t accidently insult him—”

“He was overjoyed,” Philip informed with a tender pat on his shoulder.

“Really? Well, I mean, if-if you say so,” Quentin accepted with a hint of concern, his fingers fashioning his new present onto his leather cord before retying the knot and then redonning his necklace.

“I believe recuperation is required for your injuries.” Sally offered an enthusiastic nod and a sharp shriek in agreement, her bloodied hands fiddling with a clean rag—probably to remove the filth accumulated on them.

Averting his gaze, Quentin mumbled a snippy, “You’re not gonna ask why I was off by myself?”

“I believe you had your reasons,” The Wraith calmly replied, “whatever they may be.”

That was it? No interrogation? His figurative ball of happiness might very well leap out of his esophagus and dance at his feet with how his luck was turning out. “Th-Thank you,” he murmured after a spell, “and I’m sorry for leaving without telling anybody. It was stupid, and I… I’m sorry.”

Philip provided him with an understanding nod and then warningly spoke, “Heed this: you cannot expect our protection readily when you venture off alone.”

“I know. I’d rather not try again to be honest,” Quentin sheepishly muttered, his orbs focusing between both killers, “but it’s hard to have alone time here.”

The Wraith hummed, presumably in contemplation, before saying, “Perhaps a solution can be postulated for the future. Until then, rest. Rest and recover that which you have lost.”

Since he was already craving a nap after his unwelcome encounter with Freddy, Quentin obliged his tired consciousness. Removing his shoes and vest, he placed them on the ground beside his discarded beanie and climbed fully onto the bed. The furs were then draped over his body along with another body which eluded his attention until it brushed against him.

Sally was now snuggling her masked face into his curls whilst her arms curled protectively around his back. Admittedly it was slightly awkward for him to sleep with The Nurse essentially smothering his body; although, the girls—namely Nea, Meg or Feng—were sometimes worse when they fell asleep on top of him at the campfire. Nevertheless, similar to that situation, he permitted the obviously desired, non-threatening contact. Judging by her modest grip on him, Quentin assumed that his little trek into the woods had scared her.

If this was her reaction, then what were the others going to think? Philip had seemed fairly neutral about his choice though the note of disapproval he heard told a different story. He anticipated a head slap from someone when he woke up, maybe from Max or Michael, and a bone-crushing hug from Anna. Paling at the thought of having his limbs snapped like twigs for losing one of her cherished hatchets, Quentin decided to enjoy the warm comfort while it lasted.

Although his outing had resulted in disaster, he did discover one annoyingly interesting thing: these killers resembled his friends, their personalities at least, more than he originally thought. Furthermore, it was comforting to know that there were less monsters in this world than before. With that, he intertwined a hand with Sally’s own and let the pleasantly dreamless void engulf his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are more snuggles in order?


	7. Home

Quentin anxiously followed behind Lisa, Philip and Amanda as the three killers led him to a different area of the forest. When The Wraith had mentioned wanting to show him their secret project, which apparently was completed a trial or two ago, he practically jumped at the opportunity to dispel the mystery. Now, however, nervousness and apprehension wholly replaced his curiosity as his pessimistic mind conjured up the scariest or most sinister of scenarios.

Giving his head a powerful shake, he forcefully swallowed his fears and put a little faith in the people, not monsters, guiding him through the misty woods. Besides, after spending so much time with the friendlier killers, Quentin was happy to admit that his trust in them had skyrocketed. Moreover, the miscellaneous activities they did together in pairs, or in small groups, brought him closer to each killer individually.

For example, he continued his semi-rigorous hatchet throwing practice with Anna where the woman essentially ran his arms ragged. Throwing objects and propelling his body through water utilized different muscle groups, which was simultaneously surprising and annoying, but the definition he already possessed from years of swimming came in handy anyhow. In spite of her arguably harsh teachings, The Huntress did praise him on multiple occasions for his constant, albeit slow, improvement. Currently his stance was perfected, which took quite some time to nail down, and now all that remained was his skewed aim. His throws sometimes curved too much to the left and ended up narrowly missing their mark; although, Anna was determined, overly so in fact, to smooth out his lingering imperfection.

Otherwise, when hanging out with Max and Evan, he was taught basic knowledge of woodworking and metalworking—when the supplies were available. Their teaching methods varied in terms of delivery: The Hillbilly, for instance, was diligent and patient with his progress whereas The Trapper had a tendency to disapprovingly sigh when he did not grasp the proper technique right away. Despite the arguably conflicting encouragement, Quentin knew that Evan was not as irritated by his mistakes as the killer’s outward attitude suggested. In fact, when The Trapper was towering over him, he managed to catch the occasional smile or two beneath the man’s mask which had his heart swelling with pride.

Bubba infrequently joined him, Evan and Max during his lessons but The Cannibal, ever silent, usually kept a reasonable distance away from him. The other killers assured him that Bubba was making strides to become comfortable with his presence but Quentin needed no explanation to witness that fact with his own two eyes. His cherished present, which continued to hang from his neck like a badge of honour, was an example of one such stride.

Most recently too, after singlehandedly attempting to carve a wooden tree figurine, he had unexpectedly fallen asleep on the cluttered workbench. His efforts up until that point resulted in a jagged mess of lines rather than realistic looking branches so sleep probably whisked him away when his frustration peaked. Upon awakening, he had discovered a yellow apron draped over his back and his pitiful excuse of a tree, finished and visually perfected, sitting before him. Quentin knew immediately which killer was responsible and was immensely grateful for Bubba’s kindness even though he had missed it completely.

Aside from them, he also began culling and replanting various flora with Lisa and Sally whilst both killers educated him on their hidden uses and applications. Admittedly he was a touch sad that Claudette and Jake, with their appreciation for botany and the wilderness respectively, were missing out on this rare opportunity. The Hag, specifically, possessed a wealth of plant knowledge passed down through her elders. Normally said knowledge remained restricted to the members of her village but, considering the circumstances, Lisa was happily willing to break tradition for him and Sally.

Quiet meditation was the activity of choice when he spent time with Philip which, embarrassingly enough, often led to him falling asleep on the bell-wielder’s lap. The Wraith never seemed to mind as the whole point of such exercise was to relax them and the killer was always elated to watch him sleep peacefully. Which was why, after countless meditative sessions, that Quentin simply forwent the effort of trying to stay awake during their quiet time. Furthermore, he believed in Philip enough, and the promise the killer had made to him so long ago, to act as his vigil and his dreamcatcher.

With Amanda, though her endless teasing was moderately torturous, he enjoyed the various games they played together. Engaging in such activities reminded him of his survivor friends and how lively the campground became when they played a wicked game of War or Old Maid. Unlike with the survivors however, there was no deck of cards here but he and Amanda made due by playing things like hangman or rock-style chess. She was an absolute menace when they played Would You Rather, her questions either throwing him for a loop or making him rethink his philosophy of life. Nevertheless, it was all in good fun as opposed to how she used to play games with other, supposedly sinful people.

Last, yet certainly not least, was the special interactions he had with Michael. While initially one-sided, the boogeyman had somewhat abandoned his love of stalking in favour of sitting by his side and merely listening to him talk. Quentin knew he had a habit of rambling, especially when his fondest memories took control of his mouth, but Michael seemed ill-bothered by any topic he brought up. The Shape did not always offer something in return though the killer assured him that his words were being acknowledged with some physical gesture.

Although, as of late, Michael had begun to contribute to the conversation by writing responses on his bare arm. It was up to him to carefully decipher each invisible letter scrawled across his skin, a task which he was content to do, without succumbing to the tickling sensation. The boogeyman still utilized hand gestures, when applicable, but this method ensured Michael’s input was correctly conveyed. Their unique method, however, made their conversations quite long which, in turn, guaranteed his fatigue. Nonetheless, similar to Philip, Michael seemed happy enough watching him sleep and sometimes even snuggled with him—like before when he was sick.

“Soon now,” Philip informed, the short sentence being the only warning Quentin was given before a pair of palms covered his eyes.

Freezing when his sight was lost, he tried to remove the obstruction only for his forearm to be batted away—presumably by The Hag given the length of the fingers. “Are you serious?”

“Not much of a surprise if you see it right away,” Amanda explained from behind him.

“But—”

“Stop whining,” Lisa half-heartedly demanded whilst slapping at the back of his legs, “and keep moving.”

Quentin grumpily pouted though inwardly grinned at The Hag and her blunt mannerisms which expressed affection in their own way. Heartily chuckling under his breath as a result, he then permitted the trio of killers to steer him forward. He was granted a brief moment to re-evaluate his many assumptions regarding the nature of the surprise prior to being abruptly stopped.

“Alright mop top,” Amanda started to utter as her palms slowly disappeared from his face, “we’ve arrived.”

Looking forward, his eyes instantly widened and his gaze rose to take in the marvel in front of him. Huge did not even begin to describe the size of the impressive structure and this, assumedly, was only the front part of it. Greeting his field of vision was the largest, most enchanting three-story wooden lodge he had ever laid eyes on.

“Wha… how…” Quentin petered off when his brain refused to form the appropriate sentences to convey his utter awe. How did this building… did the killers construct this lodge all by themselves? They obviously had the means of doing so but such a task seemed an impossible feat to him in such a place.

“It took a great many trials to erect and several more to decorate,” Philip explained as Quentin continued to gawk at the structure, “but we’re all quite pleased with the result.”

“It… it’s awesome,” he eventually voiced. “I can’t believe you guys actually made this. Did everyone help build it?”

The bell-wielder offered him a slow nod and answered, “With the exception of Fredrick and Herman, yes.”

“Wow. B-But where’d you get all the materials for it? I know the wood came from the surrounding forest but—oh! The rest was carved and whittled right?”

“The forest did indeed provide most of the supplies necessary for its creation,” The Wraith declared whilst his milky white orbs briefly eyed said forest with a glimmer of appreciation. “The artistic touches and additional furnishing came afterward.”

“And the Entity provided the rest,” The Hag added.

“Wow,” he dumbly repeated again, his motor functions having difficulty keeping up with all the new information to process.

“Not gonna have a heart attack on us are you?” Amanda smirkingly asked, her mischievous expression making Quentin wish she wore her pig head just so that he could poke her snoot in retaliation—something which apparently irritated her.

“M’not having a heart attack,” he replied with an accompanying middle finger directed at The Pig when she snickered. “I just never thought something like _this_ was possible here. We… I-I mean the survivors would never be able to create this.”

“Why?” Lisa perplexedly questioned.

“We don’t have the tools that you guys have,” Quentin elaborated while waving an arm at the lodge, “not ones for this kind of construction anyway. We never find the things you guys do in the woods either, like furs and scrap metal. I-I don’t know why… we just don’t.”

The killers exchanged somber looks whilst he grew quiet, his mind repeatedly cursing the Entity and her mysteriously unjust favouritism. “Hey,” Amanda softly mumbled as her finger flicked at the underside of Quentin’s drooped chin. “Let’s give you the grand tour.”

Dismissing his sorrows momentarily, he supplied the three killers with a little smile and a mute nod. His voice was liable to crack if he attempted to use it though the others seemed attuned to his currently depressed emotional state regardless. Returning his smile with a cheeky grin, Amanda took hold of his left hand and tugged him toward the lodge.

Strolling around the outer deck with the three killers, Quentin absorbed every spoken and visual detail in amazement. The exterior, for example, consisted entirely of a wooden aesthetic and appeared to be rectangular in shape. Several support beams stemmed from the overhanging roof into the third-floor balcony below it and additional beams continued the pattern of branching down into the balcony or deck below it. A myriad of square holes, ranging from small to medium in size, spanned across the walls which he assumed resembled glassless windows. The visuals themselves were crystal clear too curtesy of the abundant fluorescent flowers strewn about: majority of which surrounded the grounds of the lodge; some mounted on the log walls in small wooden pots; and the rest sitting in larger planters on the decks.

Circling to the back of the lodge, Quentin soundlessly gasped at the sight of a giant lake—its bank and underwater depths illuminated by numerous flora—sitting just in the backyard. Seeing a body of water was nothing special on its own but, paired with the lodge and flowers, it was like looking at a postcard for a vacation getaway to a luxury lake. Plus, unlike the typically photoshopped image found on postcards, this place was wholly original and unfiltered. Of course there was no sunlight to bask in or other amenities to enjoy but it was still incredible.

Stepping through the double doors—also wooden and engraved with stunning abstract designs—leading into the front of the lodge, the interior reflected that of the exterior in the sense that it maintained the strictly wooden appeal. More potted plants littered the inside, though the amount exceeded what was on the outside of the lodge, which illuminated the interior fairly well with its aero blue light. Otherwise, sections of the walls were decorated with wooden carvings and every vertical support beam, bannister and railing was whittled to depict a unique decorative design.

Most notably, a ginormous tree occupied the centre of the lodge, which the killers clearly built around, with its height shooting through the open ceiling. It was essentially like looking at a miniature section of the woods trapped inside a building which somehow reminded him of seeing a tiny model ship inside of a glass bottle—a environment confined within an entirely different one. Begrudgingly tearing his orbs away from the main attraction, Quentin observed that the hallway on each floor looped around the majestic, rectangular patch of earth in the centre. Additionally, passage to the upper levels came in the form of a few staircases, each seemingly half the size of the hallways, on the bottom two floors.

“The lodge is equipped with a variety of recreational rooms and bedrooms,” Philip informed, his weapon vaguely gesturing to select areas of the lodge.

Lisa gingerly patted him on the back as she claimed, “One of the bedrooms is yours.”

“For me?” After witnessing a chorus of friendly nods and warm smiles, he offered his own nod and a trembly, “Th-Thank you.”

Their kindness, and supposedly without any hidden strings attached, was beyond anything that he had ever anticipated. No words in the English language were enough to express his gratitude and yet, for all of his appreciation, he too was feeling fairly saddened. While he experienced a prolonged reprieve from the endless torment this world dished out, his friends were surely suffering just the same as before. Why was he singled out when the other survivors had been trapped here for much longer than he had? What made him so special? And if their all-powerful captor valued the killers so highly, why was he even permitted this rare gift?

“C’mon mop top,” Amanda implored, her chipper voice breaking him out of his melancholy trance. Quentin then watched as The Pig brushed a stray curl out of his eyes whilst her right hand held a wooden tankard filled with dirt and flowers—a substitute candle more specifically. “I know you wanna see your bed for sure.”

Releasing a hiccup-like chuckle to mask the sob lodged in his throat, he schooled his expression into a playful one and sassily replied, “Maybe.”

Lisa then groaned at the display which prompted both him and Amanda to laugh while Philip merely shook his head. His good cheer was cut short by The Hag grabbing his arm and dragging him up one of the staircases. Stifling the last bits of his laughter, Quentin allowed Lisa to tug him up the creaking stairs to the third floor and off toward the back leftmost corner of the lodge.

Feeling the need to say something to the grumpy killer, he uttered a random, “M’sorry t’be so much trouble Lisa.”

“Youthful enthusiasm. I used to be the same,” she admitted, her tone sounding as though she was reminiscing, “and now, with you, I understand why most of my elders were so frustrated with me.”

His mood sunk a little at the prospect of being nothing but a source of frustration for her. Both sheepish and dejected, Quentin felt his arm sag in The Hag’s grasp as he mumbled, “I’m really s—”

“But they cherished and protected me all the same. Don’t change.”

Straight to the point, semi-cold and yet strangely uplifting; clearly Lisa had been robbed of becoming a strong, respectable and potentially scary village elder. Grinning foolishly, he internally breathed a sigh of relief and nonetheless vowed to be less of a nuisance to her in the future. The last thing he wanted was to annoy or rile up the killers for no logical reason.

A door with a detailed pumpkin design etched into it briefly sparked his interest until The Hag finally relinquished his arm in front of an adjacent door. Engraved into the bark of the new door was a tree-like design, identical to the one on his graphic T-shirt, with a moderately sized plain crucifix ensnared in the centre of the twisty branches. He loved the intricate image, or rather how suiting it was, yet his mind did question the design in the first place.

“Why not use numbers instead of designs? N-Not that I’m complaining,” he hurriedly included in case his inquiry offended them.

“Numbers or names were the initial intention but this direction seemed more appropriate,” the bell-wielder claimed. “For instance, Anna’s door is engraved with a hare and two crossed hatchets in the background.”

Smiling at the mental image and how fitting each object was in describing The Huntress, he simply said, “Those suit her. And yours?”

“My door bears a skull and spine,” Philip replied, “the latter of which is contorted in the form of a spiral.” The reveal evoked less pleasant imagery than before but nonetheless made sense given the weapon the killer wielded.

“Mine’s the symbol that my elders passed down to me,” Lisa chimed in, her long nails drawing a triangle shape in the air. “They’ve always brought me safety and good fortune.”

Quentin thought it prudent to point out that her ‘good fortune’ was probably misplaced but decided against verbalizing it. Looking next to Amanda, he witnessed the killer shrug her shoulders as she voiced an almost bored, “There were a million things I could’ve picked but I ended up carving a pig head into my door. John valued the symbolism of the pig for many reasons and I… it means a lot to me too.”

Again he found himself holding his tongue, especially with how distance Amanda looked right now, and instead inquired, “An-And the others?”

“We’ll let you figure out the rest of your own,” The Pig toothily uttered, her lightning fast change in mood mildly stunning. “Think of it like a game.” And apparently, no matter what was happening, she always found some way to shoehorn a game into any situation.

“You’re no fun,” he mumbled in pseudo dejection, his hazy blues piercing into her dark brown orbs.

Amanda plastered on a knowing smirk, which appeared slightly wicked yet friendly, as she opened the door to his room. At her hand gesture, he entered a few steps into the unknown space and examined his given living quarters.

Aero blue lighting bathed everything in a soft glow as the entire room was loaded to brim with fluorescent flowers—potted, hanging from the ceiling and in tankards. A wooden twin-sized bedframe, complete with straw mattress and furs for blankets, occupied a sizeable portion of the space. Next, two chairs and four dressers, varying in size, were scattered about along with one lone nightstand beside the bed. Several wooden sculptures and figurines, likely presents from the other killers, rested atop the dressers whilst a familiar figurine, the one Bubba had finished for him, sat on the nightstand.

Across from him was a wooden sliding door, presumably leading outside to the balcony, with one small shutter, assumedly hiding a glassless window, attached to the upper half of the door. Two bigger shutters, both closed and medium in size, littered the adjacent wall while the remainder of the room was blank and ready to be decorated to his liking. All in all, it was a splendid sight to drink in and one hell of a major upgrade from his sleeping arrangement at Aura.

A finger poked at the back of his neck as Amanda inquired, “D’you like it?”

“Yeah,” Quentin shakily replied while walking over to the bed and taking a seat, his orbs lazily scanning the room with the utmost admiration. “It’s great.”

“Hopefully it will allow you a little privacy and solitude,” Philip spoke with a ghost of a grin.

“No locks though,” Lisa quickly informed, “so closed doors and windows mean no entry without permission.”

“Okay. I… god, I can’t thank you guys enough,” he tearily muttered, his emotions running just as rampant as his blizzardy thoughts. “Seriously, I-I don’t know—”

“You’re welcome,” Lisa cut in, her injection saving the three killers from the wrath of his mortifying stammering.

Offering him a subtle head bow, Philip then said, “We will allow you this time to settle in. Should you need anything, our rooms are located on the second floor.”

“And in case we’re not around,” Amanda pitched out while exiting his room to stand beside the other two killers, “Michael’s and Sally’s rooms are next door t’yours.”

Mumbling his gratitude for the billionth time, the door slowly closed with a soft click which left Quentin alone with his suffocating thoughts. All of this seemed so surreal, the absence of agonizing death and the experience of residing with the company of killers, and yet it was actually happening. He critically contemplated all that he had been given, every single precious gift and opportunity, until a tapping noise from the sliding door startled him.

Strolling toward the source of the tapping, he cautiously pushed the sliding door open to discover Michael standing on the balcony side. The aero blue glow highlighting his giant stature almost made the boogeyman appear more terrifying in comparison to the shadows cloaking his figure in the forest. Myers gave him his signature sideways head tilt, a gesture which applied to a great many things but, in this instance, Quentin believed it was meant to ask for permission.

“You wanna come in?” he questioned for confirmation whilst hastily wiping at the undersides of his irritated orbs.

Receiving a slight nod in response, he motioned for Michael to enter where he then watched the killer cross the threshold and stand awkwardly in the room. If it were not for the loud breaths emanating through his mask, someone might mistake Myers for a piece of furniture with how eerily still he stood.

“Y’know, you can sit…” Quentin trailed off when he eyed each chair in his room and deemed them too small for the other male to use. “Uh, s-sit on the bed.” Once Myers complied, even as the bedframe shrilly protested, he took a seat next to the hulking killer and simply enjoyed the quiet atmosphere the boogeyman provided. Feeling a series of taps on his knee shortly afterward, he peeked through the eyeholes of Michael’s mask and knowingly asked, “Wanna talk?”

A short nod answered him followed by a hand lightly tugging at his sleeve. Understanding exactly what the other male wanted, Quentin shed his vest and laid the covering behind him on the bed. Next, he presented his bare arm to Myers which was accepted in a firm, non-bruising grasp. Michael then brushed his index finger across his substitute piece of paper prior to writing a four-letter word on it.

“Past? What’s past?” The boogeyman pointing to his chest prompted Quentin to say, “Wait, you… you wanna talk ‘bout your past? Your story? Really?”

In his excited state, he nearly missed the stiff nod directed his way. Out of all of the killers residing here, he had yet to hear about the origin stories for three individuals: Michael, Bubba and Herman. He was content not knowing The Doctor’s background, though the intrigue was present, and otherwise had been patiently waiting for the other two killers to come around. The Cannibal’s backstory, however, was likely going to remain a mystery for quite some time. Hence, by process of elimination, that left only one story to hope for and apparently Myers was prepared to share it now.

“Only if you’re s—” Quentin abruptly paused when the boogeyman wrote another message into his forearm, the tickling sensation faintly making his skin itch. “You only want me to know?” An affirming nod, one which was much too menacing to argue with, had him uttering a resolute, “I won’t tell anyone else. But, uhm, can I ask why? I-I mean, why’re you sharing this with me now?”

A simple ‘want to’ scrawled into his skin was the answer he received and was probably the only one he was going to get. Shuffling closer to Myers such that their legs were touching, he gave the boogeyman a final head nod before signalling for the killer to proceed with his storytelling.

Steadying his forearm, Quentin shut his eyes and listened through his sense of touch. Michael was meticulous with his written words though each sentence painted a much graver picture than ever imaginable. The boogeyman spoke of experiencing horrible nightmares of an ancient time long gone and having to battle a commanding voice—hateful of all people—booming inside of his head as a child. It was that very voice that enslaved his consciousness, broke him down to the point that he actually started to listen to it. Furthermore, on Halloween night of 1963, he finally obeyed the voice and brutally murdered his older sister Judith.

“H-How old were you when you…” Myers swiftly wrote a number into skin which made Quentin’s stomach backflip in utter shock. “You were only _six?_ Shit.”

Without waiting for another reaction, the boogeyman recommenced the regaling of his frightening tale. Evidently all Michael had wanted was for his nightmare to stop, for the voice to simply go away, but it never did. After killing his sister, his thoughts mirrored whatever the voice desired of him, the mystery voice essentially taking the place of his own inner voice, and his body acted accordingly as he aged in his isolation at a mental institute. He became a man obsessed, or possibly possessed, and his fixation on Laurie was merely to finish what the voice wanted him to finish before he was incarcerated.

Apparently, while acting as the physical will of the voice, Michael was unconcerned with anything other than appeasing its words. Plus his mission, so to speak, was allowed to continue without pause as he was always brought back from the brink of death and required little to no rest whatsoever.

“How many people did you kill exactly?”

Myers merely shrugged in reply, the gesture causing Quentin to pinch his brows together in displeasure. How did someone forget the number of people that they had murdered? Maybe there were too many to count, his mind helpfully supplied which prompted his stomach to flip once more. Was it even acceptable to blame the boogeyman for any of it?

Feeling Michael resume his scribbles, Quentin forced his displeased brain to focus back on the conversation. Myers then revealed that the voice of the Entity immediately smothered his old one, the voice that he had believed to be his own. Although, their captor’s voice was not constantly speaking and, after countless trials, the interlude of silence somehow reawakened a different voice—something familiar yet foreign at the same time. It had been a disturbing phenomenon, one which he ignored until the true nature of the new voice was revealed: it was his _own_ thoughts. The other killers, which he had initially attacked, also aided him in seeing and understanding this fact.

“Did you _actually_ kill any of the other killers before I got stuck here?” A nod answered his question followed by a scrawled message about the punishment the Entity bestowed upon him afterward: unbearable screeching ringing in his ears. “That sounds painful… and annoying.”

Leaning into the boogeyman when a lull in the conversation had arisen, Quentin attempted to wrap his mind around the information. In all honesty, he did sympathize with the nightmare bits though their experiences with them differed immensely. Otherwise, he idly wondered if the mystery voice was an illness or if it truly was some evil being that had taken up residence inside of Michael’s head. Given everything that Quentin had suffered through up until now, he was fully prepared to defend the notion that demons and such were undeniably real. Were those ancient nightmares connected to something demonic too or was it merely a coincidence. His questions were piling up but, judging by how the story was expressed, Myers probably did not have the answers he desperately desired.

“Hold on,” Quentin suddenly voiced in afterthought. “Did you ever talk to Judith or your parents ‘bout your nightmares and the voice?” The Shape responded by saying that his parents wrote off his nightmares as a phase in his development whilst his sister took little interest in his problems—as far as he remembered.

Mulling over that tidbit of news, he gifted Myers with a compassionate, albeit awkward, pat on the knee. In his opinion, Michael had been a victim of horrible circumstances, as he and his friends had been with Freddy. No one was able to help the older male, or really even listened to his plight, as a child which had Quentin grinding his teeth in vexation. Why was it so hard for adults to express compassion and understanding to their children? Could they not _feel_ when something was amiss?

Belatedly realizing that he was personalizing the issue, he diverted his attention back to the important facts. Michael, while lacking good reason and remorse, had killed and only because of some stupid little voice. Frankly he believed, however naïve said belief seemed, that the voice was wholly responsible for the Halloween slaughter. The entire thing was extremely unfair, unfathomable really, in that something so innocent and harmless could be such a danger. Add to the fact that none of Michael’s family members even bothered to… then again, his father did not believe him either when he spoke of Freddy’s return. Were the ignorant the only ones capable of living peacefully or something?

Sighing tiredly, Quentin embraced the killer in a silent, sideways hug to express his acceptance and condolences whilst murmuring, “Thanks for telling me and m’really sorry you had t’go through that. I know a thing or two ‘bout bad dreams, but that voice… I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like. My own voice, the one in my head, it’s annoying enough,” he asserted as Michael reciprocated his embrace. “But another one, something not apart of me? I couldn’t handle it.”

Their bodies shifted nearer until the killer eventually maneuvered them to fully lie down on the mattress. The boogeyman then pulled the fur blanket out from beneath them and exclusively covered Quentin with the fluffy thing.

“Wait Michael, Freddy might h—”

His concerns were abruptly silenced by a palm gently clamping over his mouth. Did the interruption imply that Freddy had been taken care again? When the obstruction swiftly vanished, Quentin wished to protest further but the feeling of firm arms encircling his torso dissuaded him from doing so. With Myers essentially spooning him from behind, rather tightly too, he decided not to fight what the boogeyman clearly needed. The concept, however, was nonetheless shocking: Michael, the most stoic and emotionless killer he had ever met, was craving non-violent physical contact.

His heart ached as his teary eyes remained glued to the closed sliding door when he carefully asked, “D’you regret anything?”

The skin on his exposed neck mildly rippled when the answer was scribbled on it. According to the message, Myers apparently regretted listening to the voice and allowing his nightmares to frighten him into obeying. Pinching his orbs shut, he decided to abandon the conversation when Michael’s second point hit a little too close to home. Furthermore, in lieu of speaking again, Quentin relaxed in the other male’s hold after removing his beanie and kicking off his sneakers to maximize his comfort.

“You’re free from that voice now,” he empathetically whispered, one hand clutching the trinkets on his necklace while the other soothingly squeezed the killer’s wrist, “and the Entity’s voice will be next.”

With heavy breaths filtering in his ears, which now sounded less harsh, Quentin snuggled into Michael’s warmth and sought out the serene calling of dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The information regarding The Shape’s past is loosely based off of the official Halloween movie wikipedia.
> 
> Otherwise, there exist a variety of different theories surrounding the question of why Michael kills. In my version, as vaguely depicted in this chapter, a powerful being—incorporeal and full of malice—elects to sow its poisonous seeds inside the mind of a capable, yet controllable, vessel. Once complete, this physical vessel—namely Michael Myers—is then mentally enslaved such that its will is brought forth into the physical world. This demonic will links back to Samhain, an ancient festival as depicted in the nightmares Myers experiences as a child. During such a celebration, some descriptions of the event mention that sacrifices were made to Samhain, and it is those sacrifices—from man specifically—which the mysterious voice desires from its physical vessel. Moreover, the voice called for the sacrifice of Judith for appeasement and later on Laurie though no other individual, especially if they interfered, remained safe from its thirst for the spilling of blood. Therefore, courtesy of the demonic presence in his mind, Michael is essentially a victim transformed into a mindless and unstoppable machine driven by an ancient evil.


	8. Clown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be advised that this chapter contains darker, more explicit themes. Said themes are not included in the warnings or tags to avoid spoilers.

Overseeing the maintenance of the very weapons responsible for murdering him and his fellow survivors on several occasions induced a dull ache in the pit of his gut. As such, he outright refused to aid the killers with their weapon tinkering until he realized his supervision and subsequent intervention could indeed benefit the survivors. Not through sabotage of course, as the killers were sure to easily pick him out as the culprit, but through helpful tweaks to their pre-existing arsenal.

His desire led him to this moment: supervising Evan and Max as they performed necessary maintenance on their respective weaponry. Any work like this which required workbenches had been restricted to the outdoors as the noise within the confines of the lodge proved to be too loud for everyone else. Hence, the workshops inside the building were converted into extra rooms, storage space and a fancy lounge room. The workbenches themselves, and all applicable tools, were then moved across the lake behind the lodge for the time being. With the construction of a small workshop presently in the works though, it was only a matter of tick tocks before everything had an appropriate home—everything deserving of one anyway.

Back to his original goal, the vast forest offered its fair share of items though the rarer of which seemed to suit his needs best. Thus, when permitted, he was out scouring said forest for weapon attachments and such which lessened the burden his fellow survivors were forced to endure. His ventures were always monitored by one or more killers, per the norm, but his inner introvert was growing accustomed to the extra company. Majority of the killers however, while supportive of his search efforts, tended to gift him with sympathetic looks when they thought he was distracted. He understood why: no matter what he found or how the killers performed in their trials, the survivors were guaranteed unpleasantness in this hellscape.

Nevertheless, he was determined to do whatever was necessary to help ease their pain. Besides, his scouring never received blatant scrutiny as his searches also turned up other items for the killers to utilize—things like a cypress necklet for Lisa and a scratched mirror for Michael. The one time he had actually found a bowl of chilli, steaming hot in fact, which Bubba happily took off of his hands. He might have been annoyed if not for the unusually chipper smile The Cannibal gave him which warmed his heart. His worst find had been an old class photograph of him and his classmates from Badham Preschool, their elated expressions all courtesy of a certain someone, which he burned immediately upon discovery.

“Quentin.”

“Huh?” he blurted out, his hands scrambling for a certain item shortly afterward when he recollected what he was doing. “Oh, right, here.”

Handing his most recent find—a set of padded jaws—to Evan, Quentin observed as The Trapper attached the newest component to the spring-loaded base of his beartrap. These particular types of jaws were meant to hold, not injure, anyone unlucky enough to step between them. Honestly he was stunned such a set even existed given how cruel the Entity was with her games. More importantly, getting caught in a regular beartrap, or one armed with serrated teeth, hurt like hell and messed up their strides for the remainder of the trial.

He recalled once suggesting to Evan about forgoing the use of his traps but apparently their mutual captor was not fully sated unless every weapon at their disposal was utilized. This notion further confused him about the Entity since her strange preferences contradicted a handful of the items she included in her world—the padded jaws were an excellent example of this.

Engrossed in his musings, Quentin nearly missed the low curses Max was emitting. Curiosity diverted his focus to The Hillbilly where he watched the other male struggle with something stuck in his chainsaw chain.

“Fabric?” Evan posed to Max, a guess to what object might be the cause of his fellow killer’s frustration.

“Hair.”

A thick, albeit damaged, lock of blonde hair, which most likely came from Laurie, was pulled free from the chain seconds later. Seeing Max sigh whilst examining the chunk of hair prompted Quentin to inwardly sigh as well. Laurie deserved better than this, all the survivors and _some_ of the killers did too. This, however, was life now and he desperately hoped his fellow survivors were staying strong and weathering the storm well enough without him.

“Quen—”

“I’ll get your motor oil,” he abruptly declared while simultaneously strolling away from the pair.

Max probably noticed his staring, Evan too no doubt, and was gearing up to spew some comforting speech again. However, his tolerance for another tensely awkward conversation regarding what was necessary to survive in this world was non-existent at this specific time. Perhaps it was selfish of him to dismiss the subject but he had already accepted the facts: he was in the company of killers, offered a rare and peculiar reprieve while his fellow survivors carried on surviving without him. He was forever grateful for the reprieve of course, but that did not stop him from frowning whenever a killer was whisked away in a blinding fog.

Crouching down in front of a large wooden trunk closeby, his fingers flung the lid open and rummaged about inside for a can of off-brand motor oil when a shattering noise and two loud thuds hit his ear. Whirling his neck backward, his eyes promptly widened in horror when he witnessed Max and Evan crumpled on the ground in front of the workbenches. The most alarming detail was that their collapsed bodies were encased in a strange pink cloud which hovered with a balefully vibrant thickness.

Abandoning his search, he tried to rush to their aid but a steadfast object snaking around his torso stilled his movement. His startled cry was then silenced by a damp rag smothering the lower half of his face, its overpowering scent making his stomach churn and his head spin.

“Deep breath love.”

Unintentionally obeying the mysterious British voice when his flailing turned frantic, Quentin felt his eyeballs inch toward the back of his skull. The saccharine sweet aroma, something much too pungent to be pleasant, filled his lungs and lingered in his nostrils. Mere seconds later, his limbs adopted a heaviness akin to a sack of bricks and his vision joined the all-consuming darkness clouding his mind.

\--------------------

Groggily coming to, his weighted eyelids fluttered minutely before flying open at the sight of a familiarly disarrayed, mould-infested classroom. Scrambling to his feet with lightning speed, Quentin briefly scanned the oddly deskless interior and quickly found his worst nightmare standing before the chalkboard. Those despicable claws were scribbling crude letters into the cracked surface, the shrill sound of blades dragging through the board harshly grating on his ears. Was that awful noise really necessary?

When his presence was eventually acknowledged, the dream demon ceased writing and threw a friendly greeting over his shoulder. “Welcome back Quen.”

“What happened?” he all but demanded, his sludgy mind attempting to piece together missing segments of his memory. “How did I… I don’t remember falling asleep.”

“You didn’t,” Freddy confirmed, his form spinning about to properly face Quentin. “At least not without some help from a new friend of mine.”

“New friend?”

“Kenneth Chase,” the older male clarified, his devilish grin looking beyond disturbing. “A gem of a man, one who shares in my particular… _tastes_.”

The smugness in the bastard’s voice did not go unheard which spurred Quentin into saying, “You mean a sadistic pervert?”

“An avid collector actually,” Freddy casually put forth, “though he enjoys indulging in the odd vice or two.”

“Like you do.”

The dream demon considered the statement for a spell prior to grinningly admitting, “I guess I’ve always been a little naughty. But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah, no shit,” Quentin deadpanned. “Can I wake up now?”

“Sorry angelfish, naptime’s not over for you yet,” Freddy declared, the amusement slowly draining from his face to reveal a sliver of seriousness. “And Kenneth’ll make sure no one interferes until I say it is.”

“And what if I don’t wanna be stuck in here with you?” he firmly countered, his flight or fight instinct preparing for the worst reaction. “M’not playing whatever stupid game you have planned.”

Quentin swiftly shrunk back when Freddy suddenly appeared in front of him, mangled face mere centimetres away from his own, as the older sweetly whispered, “What makes you think you have a choice?”

The dream demon then grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and threw him into the classroom windows. His body easily sailed straight through the glass as he roughly tumbled and rolled onto the desolate playground outside. Shattered glass crunched beneath his crumpled form as a pained sigh slipped past his careful guard. Shaking off the meager damage, Quentin steadily rose up again and prepared to face his nemesis head-on; however, a quick glance through the busted windows showed that Freddy no longer stood inside the classroom. Where did that bastard disappear to now?

Without warning, tiny grass blades then shot up from their resting places surrounding the grounds to swirl around him, their movement forming a blinding vortex. His arms protectively shielded his head as the sharp edges of the grass nicked his exposed skin—the sensation akin to nasty paper cuts—and sliced through his clothes. Knowing that staying put was not a smart option, Quentin simply chose a random direction and ran with abandon.

Batting clumps of flying, murderous grass out of his path worked for a time until said grass disappeared altogether and a new threat snagged his left ankle and tugged backward. Bellyflopping hard on the gritty earth of the playground, Quentin grunted as a burning pain branched out from his crushed ribs and chin. A hiss passed between his clenched teeth when he peered down at his ankle and properly saw the cause of his fall: a thorny vine, sprouting forth from underneath the dirt, riddled with blossoming white roses.

Snarling in outrage, Quentin grasped the vine with both hands and attempted to tear the damned thing off of him. Sharp thorns easily dug into his thin skin, their shallow kisses drawing out beads of bloods in their wake. Although, in spite of the resistance, his focus remained ever fixated on his escape which was literally within his grasp. That was until footfalls drew his gaze toward his worst nightmare, looking overly smug, slowly and menacingly approaching him.

Now he knew from the very moment when he awoke in this place that he was screwed, but that was not going to stop him from fighting back. Besides, was he supposed to shit himself just because the bastard was flaunting his dreamworld powers again? Hell no. Giving his organic bind a vicious tug, the vine finally snapped in two and subsequently permitted him with the ability to run freely.

His sprint led him away from Badham Preschool and, within the blink of an eye, straight into one of the hallways in Springwood High School. The abruptness of leaving one place and entering another distracted him long enough for Freddy to deliver a playful slash across his back. Yelping in surprise, Quentin staggered forward slightly before regaining his balance and angrily whipping around to face his demon. Pay attention, his mind sternly warned which earned nothing but an internally booming ‘duh’ in response.

“They’re really growing on you,” Freddy offhandedly commented, his miscoloured eyes glued to the fresh crimson dripping off of his knifes before his inquisitive gaze returned to Quentin. “Aren’t they?”

Deducing that the dream demon was referring to the friendly killers, he temporarily dismissed the uncomfortable sensation produced by his stinging wounds and uttered a cheeky, “Better them than you.”

Annoyance rapidly flashed across Freddy’s hideous mug which generated a wicked grin from Quentin despite his hazardous predicament. Angering the other male further was obviously not a clever idea, but the bastard needed something to deflate his ego. Besides, the longer he stalled, the better his chances were of someone finding him in the waking world.

Swifter than the crack of a whip, the hallway slanted upward in such a manner that had him losing his balance and then sliding down the floor. His sliding quickly turned to falling when the hallway became completely vertical as the environment fully rotated at a ninety-degree angle. Falling down the seemingly endless vertical hallway, Quentin narrowly broke his fall by catching the flat sideways edge at the end of a row of lockers. His muscles strained from exertion whilst he dangled from the sleek surface, his sweaty palms barely finding enough purchase to hold on.

A growing, bright light emanating from below enticed him to take a peek downward and what he saw made his heart gallop. At the supposed end of the tunnelling hallway, between two open double doors, was a massive blazing fire. The image almost reminded him of a flaming pit only this one was much larger and evidently served a different purpose besides setting a serene mood.

Fearfully distracted by the arching flames, he belatedly noted a pressure coil itself around both of his wrists. His startled gaze snapped above to witness off-white, steely limbs sprouting out from the top of the sideways locker and holding his wrists away from the ledge. Freddy then joined said limbs, his appearance matching the off-white steel, as a portion of the metal bent in such a fashion to display his fedora-clad head almost bubbling out of the flat side from within the locker.

“How ‘bout we go to hell first?” Freddy suggested whilst smilingly gesturing to the fire below, his metallic sounding tone making his voice seem more ominous. “You know that’s where you belong.”

Whimpering from the vice his wrists were squished in, Quentin weighed his list of possible responses before voicing a resolute, “You first asshole.”

“Oh, c’mon… I _insist_.”

With that, Freddy released his suspended form which immediately fell into the broiling flames. Quentin roared in utter agony as the fire encircled his form whilst he continued to fall into the unknown. Everything was on fire, literally everything, and there was no thinking through the horrendous pain or his agonized wailing until his aflame body eventually hit water. Sharp pain ebbing toward a dull and stinging one, Quentin forced himself to calm down before oxygen deprivation encouraged him to ascend to the surface. His limbs protested the entire way but the reward of air rushing back into his lungs after reaching the watery surface was worth the effort. His desperate gasping and coughing for breath however lingered even as his burned figure struggled to keep itself afloat.

Swimming to an edge of the water pool, the same pool which sat within a familiar industrial area, Quentin took an extended moment to regain his seemingly uncatchable breath and to thoroughly inspect the damage done to him. His clothes were now littered with rips and burn marks though still miraculously intact. Select areas of his skin, however, looked incredibly sickly and some felt even worse to the touch. A handful of sections, his palms especially, possessed blisters which were unbelievably painful while every other inch of his flesh exposed to the fire was bright red and moderately stinging. He doubted the slashes marks running across his back faired any better yet he was slightly relieved that he was unable to physically see them.

Holding back an onset of tears, Quentin carefully hopped out of the water and scanned the vicinity for threats as shivers racked his now freezing body. The environment appeared to be quiet, the industrial buildings standing silently in the background while the ground remained horizontal and with nothing dangerous sprouting out of it. This was obviously too peaceful to be permanent which tempted him to call out to Freddy when something vertically crossing his field of vision caught his attention.

Perplexed by the fleeting smoke near his left sneaker, Quentin followed the pathing of the bizarre object upward where he noticed the cloudy sky beginning to expel copious amount of moisture in the form of raindrops. Judging by the faint hissing noises the raindrops emitted upon pelting the dirt, he hastily surmised that these raindrops were not of the normal and harmless variety. His assumption was quickly confirmed when one droplet grazed and subsequently burned his right cheek. Corrosive rain? Fuck!

Squealing from the scorching stings, Quentin speedily bolted for whatever shelter was nearest as the acidic rain attacked his most vulnerable areas. Hurriedly throwing open a rusty door leading into one of the abandoned warehouses, he rushed inside and savagely slammed the door shut behind him. Freddy obviously wanted him to experience an immeasurable amount of suffering, specifically via burning, which meant that this little game might stretch on for awhile. The question was whether or not he could survive in here long for someone to wake up.

What if Freddy killed him first? He often theorized that dying might allow him to revive back on his originally designated side, with the survivors, but perhaps he might respawn with the killers instead. To be honest, in spite of knowing what the killers did to his fellow survivors, Quentin was rather enjoying their company. Furthermore, he trusted the nine nice killers enough to call them friends and parting from them in such an excruciating fashion was thus a depressing and unwanted thought now. Nevertheless, his death was not inevitable yet, at least not if he had anything to do about it. Freddy was not going to break him down that fast and certainly not that easily.

Fuelled by his determination to persevere, Quentin stepped farther into the all-to-familiar warehouse and then belted out an arguably reckless, “What’s the matter Freddy? D’you hate that your ‘favourite boy’ has some new friends?”

“Is that what you call them?” Freddy remarked, his voice carrying throughout the creepy interior.

Composure maintained, he searched for the older male while posing the sassy question, “Jealous?”

“Heh. Not really. You’ll always dream ‘bout me no matter what,” the dream demon claimed with utmost certainty.

Skin mildly crawling in revulsion, Quentin quickly countered with, “I don’t dream when they kill you, and it’s fucking bl—”

“Aww, really?” Freddy cooed, his clearer voice causing Quentin to divert his gaze to the catwalks above where the older was now residing. “So I _am_ the only person you dream about.”

Watching his worst nightmare lecherously grinning at him whilst lazily leaning on the catwalk railing really irked him. What was worse was how true that statement had been, regardless of who was to blame, which prompted Quentin to unleash a vexed, “Fuck you.”

“Anxious?”

“I’m _anxious_ to get the fuck outta here,” he threateningly clarified with a deadly serious tone to dispel any perverted ideas the dream demon might be concocting. “I wanna wake up!”

“So soon?” Freddy questioned with pseudo confusion, his posture straightening up and his expression becoming less friendly. “But we’ve barely started playing yet.”

Quentin abruptly shouted as he was suddenly launched into the air and then brutally slammed into grungy machinery by an invisible force. Not permitted a second of rest, his body was then repeatedly flung around the warehouse like a rag doll. His breath was knocked out of his lungs each time his smarting body connected with a solid object. Additionally, the pain from his burns now paled in comparison to the sheer agony of his screaming ribs and throbbing nose. His skull was taking a severe beating too and it was only a matter of time before it cracked open like a fragile egg shell.

The moment he pondered his death again was when his undesired, vomit-inducing torture finally ceased where one final fling unceremoniously dropped him on the catwalk in front of a highly amused, irritatingly cackling Freddy. Gathering his bearings proved too difficult a task at first so Quentin opted to remain stationary, his achy forehead resting on the cool metal of the catwalk. Stay strong, his inner voice barely managed to whisper, the feeble encouragement only just sparing him from the thought of defeat. How the fuck was he supposed to survive this?

“Are we having fun?” Freddy gleefully asked which received only a pained, semi-gurgled groan from Quentin. A minute passed, one filled with a few light snickers and a series of foot tapping from the dream demon, before fingers gripped his hair and yanked his heavy head upward. “Don’t tell me you’re tired already? And to think you had so much stamina when you were younger.”

“Sh-Shut up, and lemme wake up,” he mumbled through a wad of bloody saliva currently occupying his mouth, his watery orbs weakly glaring at the embodiment of pure evil as it squatted before him.

“But I wanna keep playing with you,” the dream demon mockingly whined out, his grotesque pout thankfully blurred. “Especially with how often your new friends get to play with you.”

Finding humour in that, Quentin spat at Freddy’s shoe prior to voicing an obnoxiously snide, “So you _are_ jealous?”

The indignant snarl and flaming eyes immediately informed him of his wrongdoing yet the sore grin stretching at his lips continued to linger. The bastard had used similar words on him so it seemed fitting to return the unofficial teachings of his ‘elder’.

“You little shit.”

Those three terrifyingly spoken words was the only warning he registered prior to his bruised and battered figure getting heaved headfirst over the railing of the catwalk. Watching the floor approach with undue speed, Quentin shut his orbs and contentedly awaited the dark embrace of death to steal him away from this nightmare. Although his loss was disheartening, he was proud to have given Freddy one hell of a difficult time—at least by his standards. In lieu of smacking into solid concrete, his head swiftly penetrated through the floor, which now possessed the consistency of a thick liquid, followed by the remainder of his body.

His time submerged in the mysteriously lukewarm goo was brief, almost comforting even, as his form continued to descend until it breached through yet another barrier. Falling from a rapidly closing hole in the ceiling, his back then landed gently on a soft and slightly springy mattress. Being on Freddy’s old bed rang numerous alarm bells as it was but what really had him panicking was his sudden lack of clothes. While his unnerving injuries remained, his tattered clothing was apparently lost during his passage through the mystery goo. Without a stitch of clothing or even any goo clinging to him for coverage, his nude body was essentially put on display for the sick fuck to ogle openly.

Beginning to hyperventilate from the vivid imagery his mind drudged up, Quentin mustered up what minuscule strength he had left and made to flee. Sadly his escape attempt was thwarted by russet-coloured bedsheets encircling his wrists and ankles which then effectively pinned him to the bed in a starfish position.

“No, no, n—Ah!” He yowled at the tightness of his new binds, the bedsheets curling around his joints nearly hard enough to crack his bones.

“You really do look good like this,” Freddy leisurely commented, his figure suddenly sprawled out on the bed beside Quentin. “Good enough to eat…”

A leathery palm teased his injured chest as the dream demon offered him an ugly smile, the action revealing a set of abnormally pointed teeth. Quentin had but a moment to process how wrong those looked before jagged teeth lunged toward him. A hoarse scream immediately ripped through his esophagus while searing pain erupted from his left shoulder. Fresh blood spurted from the bite wound shortly afterward though his attention remained zeroed in on the sheer excruciating burn. His thoughts, like countless times before, encompassed nothing but pain as his system struggled to stay functioning.

Shouting even after Freddy retracted his stained teeth, the dream demon nuzzled close to his ear and sensually purred, “Ah… Music to my ears.”

Whimpering pitifully, Quentin cranked his neck to look elsewhere in the preschool basement, anywhere besides directly at his nemesis, as his limbs tried their damnedest to regain their lost freedom. “I-I wanna wake up…”

“Why? We’ve been separated for so long,” Freddy mumbled with disgusting sweetness, a single claw gliding over various burns and scratches on Quentin’s torso, “and I know how much you’ve missed our alone time together.”

“Please don’t,” Quentin begged, his pride and defiance being swallowed up by his mounting fear. “I-I don’t wan—”

“You keep saying that,” the dream demon remarked whilst one of his blades plunged into Quentin’s right shoulder, “but I know you like this. Just like my little Nancy. You two were always insatiable once things really heated up, made the cutest noises too when I touched you in the right places…”

Willing himself to stop screaming, he managed to croak out a random, albeit desperate, “M’sorry.”

“Too late for that,” Freddy informed, his blade retracting and then returning with its other three friends to sluggishly mar the untouched sections of Quentin’s quivering thighs. “Twelve years too late.”

“P-Please…” The resumption of his pleas was likely pointless given his current situation but he possessed no other weapon in his arsenal to utilize. Unfortunately, when a palm curled around his flaccid member, he knew that there was no talking his way out of this mess. “_NO!_”

His torturous shriek continued to echo in his eardrums even after he jolted awake and upright. Trembly, rapid breaths tumbled out of his agape mouth as he frantically surveyed his noticeably darker surroundings. A corpse, definitely a corpse given how many hatchets were imbedded in it, of a man wearing a clown suit lied mere inches away. The Huntress, very much bloodied and somber looking, quickly obstructed his view of the fat clown, Kenneth most likely, as the dimly lit forest silently bored down of him. How did he… Anna had to have woken him up after butchering his assailant.

When her hands extended toward his face, Quentin violently flinched backward and shouted, “Don’t touch me!”

Scrambling away until his backside met bark, he took three hiccup-like breaths prior to letting a sob wrench its way up through the bowels of his throat. He tried to contain it, quell its guttural sound, but his misery obeyed no such restraint. Hugging his torso tightly, which was strangely bare, Quentin succumbed to his tears as realization struck painfully at his core. Whilst Freddy toyed with him in the dreamworld, Kenneth must have fondled his unconscious body in the waking world. Nothing else explained the absence of clothing on his upper body, his open fly and his… What the hell happened to his finger? His right index finger, which somehow escaped his notice until now, was missing while the dirty stub bled profusely. That sonofabitch cut off his finger? Why would someone do that, and how the fuck did he sleep through it?

Losing to his inner conflict, the sound of soothing humming mildly comforted him as arms heaved him against a warm chest. Permitting the contact, although not without flinching yet again, his weakening body was carried bridal style through the lush forest. The extent of his injuries, their true agony making themselves known, added to his sadness but he was nonetheless grateful to be awake and away from those two sadistic perverts. Cradling his oozing digit in a tight fist, Quentin focused his thoughts on less nauseating topics. He owed The Huntress greatly after this one, and... Oh god, what happened to Evan and Max?

“An-Anna,” he muttered after stifling his embarrassing cries, “Max and Evan, they’re—”

“They fine,” Anna speedily assured, her hands untangling his to wrap a thick cloth around the stub where his index finger used to be. “We help boy now.”

Her resumed humming signalled the end of their conversation but his attention had shifted to the person actually carrying him. Glancing upward, his fuzzy vision showed that Michael, exceedingly filthy and radiating murderous vibes, was the one hauling him around. Though the increased rigidity in the boogeyman’s posture had him concerned, Quentin puffed out a sigh of relief only to wince immediately afterward from the pain it brought on.

“Michael…”

His voice died in his throat upon proper examination of the gore clinging to The Shape’s mask and jumpsuit. Given the dark colour, Quentin initially mistook the stains as dirt when, in reality, it was blood. Black, tarry blood which only came from one individual he knew of: an undead cowardly pervert not worth killing but highly deserving of it anyway. He scarcely wondered how the others managed to find Freddy all the time given how large the forest was but decided that thinking about it right now was too exhausting.

Snuggling into the cozy, albeit semi-sticky, safety Myers provided, Quentin stubbornly resisted the call of sleep for as long as humanly possible. The grip on his body tightened a fraction of a degree past gentle but he knew that the boogeyman was not intending to harm him. If anything, Michael seemed ready to fight off an entire armada for him with how tense the killer was. Obviously his sudden disappearance had worried the other killers but Myers appeared to be expressing an unusual amount of lethality through his partly obstructed orbs. Even the normally heavy breathing venting around his latex mask was significantly dulled to the point where Quentin thought the boogeyman was not even breathing at all.

“Th-Thank you,” he thickly mumbled as a means of lessening the tension and to potentially drain some of the bloodlust from Michael’s mostly hidden eyes. “Thank you for saving me. Fred—”

Just uttering the first part of that foul name caused Myers to tighten his grip which then made Quentin wince and bite his tongue. Apparently explanations and questions were best saved for later, but the reaction Michael displayed had him thinking of something interesting. Remembering that The Shape used to suffer from night terrors, he wondered if his plight inadvertently gave the boogeyman some unwanted flashbacks. Was inflicting nightmares part of the reason why Myers despised Freddy with a deadly passion too?

Feeling his consciousness slipping away interrupted his contemplation and the enchanting humming from Anna was not helping his case any. With his last sliver of strength, Quentin rested his left palm over top of the fingers coiled around his right bicep and then said, “M’okay Michael. M’sorry I… I scared… you.”

The last scraps of information he registered were Anna’s soft tune continuously echoing in his ears and a deep, aggressive rumble resonating through the thick fabric of Michael’s jumpsuit. Safe and sound in the boogeyman’s warm arms, his world went blissfully black and nothing but the sweet tranquility of an endless void greeted him.


End file.
